


the course of our fate

by bayloriffic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:29:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 53,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayloriffic/pseuds/bayloriffic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is huddled in the boarded-up doorway of the library, her long brown hair hanging in tangled waves around her face. She’s the only one out there, and she looks terrible, cold and hungry and completely underdressed. Gold pulls his car over, cursing softly to himself as he rolls down the passenger side window. </p><p>Or: the one where Gold's a cop and Belle's a prostitute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold (part 1a)

Working Vice in Storybrooke isn’t the most glamourous of assignments, but after twenty years, Detective Gold’s gotten into a routine that works nicely for him.

Most of his days are spent working on drugs and gambling, investigating the wannabe gangsters who’ve never made it out of the sleepy small town in Maine. But every few weeks he does a round-up of the girls who hang out on the corner down by the town line, out near the old abandoned library. 

The other cops just leave them be, but Gold has never found that strategy particularly effective. Mostly it just gives the johns an excuse to beat up on the girls without any repercussions, so Gold likes to go down there a couple of times a month, make sure nothing too terrible’s gone down. 

Usually the girls scatter when he gets there, which he doesn’t mind too much. If they’re spry enough to dart down alleys, he figures they’re generally not too far gone.

But today, when his car turns the corner and half a dozen girls fade into the darkness of the alleys behind them, one girl stays where she is, just watching as he makes his way slowly down the block.

Like all of the girls, she’s too thin and too young, but he’s never seen her out here before, and the mere fact that she’s still there even as he pulls his cruiser to the curb means that she’s new enough that the other girls must not have warned her about him. 

Even as he gets out of the car, she doesn’t move, just holds her ground as he makes his way slowly over to where she’s standing. She tilts her head and looks at him appraisingly.

“You’re Detective Gold, right?” she says. She's got a slight accent and she at least sounds a bit older than she looks, which is good because the last thing he wants to deal with today is some underage kid turning tricks on his beat.

He blinks, surprised. “I am.”

“One of the other girls--Ruby--she told me about you,” she tells him, watching him closely through startlingly blue eyes. “Said you’re a hard case, always bringing them into the station even if they’re not doing anything wrong.”

He smirks. “Solicitation is a crime, dearie. That, by definition, makes it doing something wrong.”

“Well, either way,” she shrugs, like this little detail means nothing. “I figured that if you’re as tough as they say, you’ll haul me in eventually, so. Might as well get it over with sooner rather than later.”

He smiles. She’s brave; he likes that. 

She doesn’t bother resisting when he puts her in the backseat of the cruiser, and she even talks to him on the drive downtown, keeping up a steady stream of chatter, telling him her name is Belle and asking about the dog-eared copy of _A Farewell to Arms_ that he’s got tucked into the center console.

Gold spends much of the drive watching her in the rearview mirror, trying as hard as he can to figure her out.

* 

Gold sits Belle on one of the benches in the booking area and heads behind the desk to see if she’s got a file. 

But before he can even start looking, Sheriff Swan appears beside him, glancing out at the holding bay, where Belle's already gotten up and is talking to the officer at the desk, nodding to a pile of books stacked precariously on the counter next to his computer. They watch as the officer smiles and passes her one of the books, Belle taking it right back to the bench where Gold told her to wait for him.

“Is that Belle French?” Swan asks.

He nods, surprised. “You know her?” 

“Vaguely,” she says. “We went to school together for a while, but I haven’t seen her in years. Where’d you pick her up?”

“Out by the town line,” he tells her.

Swan nods in understanding, looking like she expected as much.

“You don’t seem surprised, Sheriff.”

She shakes her head. “She had problems at home, I think. Came to school with bruises, mostly kept to herself, from what I can remember. Her father used to be in here every couple of weeks, drunk and disorderly, domestics, stuff like that.”

“I see,” he says, feeling a surge of anger on Belle's behalf. “And where is Mr. French now?”

“No idea,” Sheriff Swan shrugs. “Haven’t had any calls about him in more than a year.”

Gold nods, looking out at where Belle’s waiting for him to decide what to do with her. She’s reading the ratty paperback she managed to charm off the desk sergeant, chewing on her lower lip with a look of intense concentration. 

"If you end up booking her, we'll probably need to call him to come pick her up," the sheriff says after a few seconds, watching him closely as he studies Belle. 

Gold doesn't answer, just nods vaguely again as he watches Belle. She really is the strangest girl. 

*

He ends up letting her go, releasing her without pressing charges. Gold didn’t actually see her doing anything other than loitering, and it’s not like throwing her in jail is going to change anything. 

He’s been working this job for twenty years, he knows how these things go.

*

After that, he stops bothering to pick her up altogether, just makes a quick pass by her corner when he’s working his beat, checking to make sure she’s okay. Even when the other girls run, Belle stays where she is, waving at him easily when he drives past. 

Sometimes he brings her a sandwich or a takeout container of soup, because she looks rather underfed, but she always rolls her eyes at him good naturedly as she takes the food from him, telling him that no matter what the other girls say, he’s a soft sell.

Gold’s reputation around town would seem to contradict that, but he figures one street kid who doesn’t hate him won’t completely destroy his image so he lets it go. And maybe he thinks it’s all worth it when she smiles at him, her eyes bright and blue and dazzling.

*

The first week of December, a blizzard hits New England, but Gold makes his usual rounds, driving through the icy, deserted streets of Storybrooke, hoping like hell that even the criminals and lowlifes have enough sense to get out of the snow. 

For the most part, they seem to, but when he gets out near the town line, he sees a lone figure standing in the corner in the snow, and it only takes him a moment to realize it’s Belle. 

She’s huddled in the boarded up doorway of the library, her long brown hair hanging in tangled waves around her face. She’s the only one out there, and she looks terrible, cold and hungry and completely underdressed. Her jeans are frayed and she’s wearing what looks to be three sweaters layered on top of each other, all of them threadbare and clearly no protection against the cold. Gold pulls his car over, cursing softly to himself as he rolls down the passenger side window. 

“You looking for a date, detective?” she calls when she sees him, the corner of her mouth quirked up in a wry smile even though she’s shivering like crazy.

He grits his teeth and doesn't take the bait. “You have somewhere you can go tonight?” he asks evenly, hoping like hell he’s not going to have to arrest her just to get her off the streets during a blizzard. 

She shrugs, pulling at the fraying thread of her sleeve, but doesn’t say anything.

“It’s snowing,” he tells her, as though the fact that she’s practically freezing to death is lost on her.

“No shit,” she says. 

This close, he can see that her lips have started to turn blue, and her whole body is shaking. She’s also got a horrible cough, one that wracks her whole body.

He gets out of the car and starts to guide her into the back seat, figuring that he can at least get her out of the cold by bringing her down to the station, but she begs him not to, saying that if he brings her in, they’ll call her father and that can’t happen. 

He scrubs a hand over his face tiredly and looks around. The streets are empty, all of the sane people apparently having the good sense to get inside when there’s a fucking blizzard going on. He shuts the back door and opens the front passenger side, gesturing her to get inside. 

She just looks at him, shivering violently but apparently willing to risk dying of exposure rather than a night in a holding cell.

“I’m not arresting you, dearie,” he says. “But you do need to get out of the cold.”

She blinks at him and he sighs, putting his hand on her back and giving her a gentle nudge in the direction of the car. Jesus, she’s thin, just skin and bones beneath her sweaters. 

She gets in the car, and then he gets in the car, and then they just sit there for a few seconds in silence. She’s got her hands up right next to the vents, warming them in the heat, and Gold can’t help but notice again how slight she is, like there’s barely anything to her.

He’s not quite sure what to do next, so he ends up bringing her to Granny’s, which by some miracle is open despite the storm. 

They get some soup, which Belle polishes off in about five seconds, so he goes ahead and orders a couple of hamburgers and some fries. She eats quickly, like she’s starving, and from the looks of her she very well may be, so he ends up leaving most of his fries for her, pushing them onto her plate once hers are gone. Belle accepts them with a sideways smile, and Gold ends up just watching her as drinks his tea. Her skin is very pale, and she’s got an absurd amount of black makeup ringed around her eyes, but despite all of that, she's really quite lovely. 

By the time she’s finished and Gold pays the check, the storm has picked up, the snow falling even harder and the wind howling down the empty roads. Christ, it’s a good thing he found her when he did. 

“Now what?” she says, huddling into the passenger seat and fiddling with the vents again. She’s still coughing way more than she should be, but she’s got some color back in her cheeks and she’s not shivering quite so violently, which must be a good sign.

Ah, that is the question. The truth of it is, Gold has absolutely no idea. There’s no way he can put her back on the street; she’d freeze to death, and that cough really is making him worried. But he can’t bring her to the station either because he’d told her he wasn’t arresting her, and if he’s anything, Gold is a man of his word.

He's still just sitting there, mulling it over, when she reaches out suddenly and puts her hand over his. Her fingers are freezing but her skin is soft, and she's smiling at him sincerely.

"Thank you," she says, giving his hand a quick squeeze. She's looking right at him and, for some reason, all Gold can think about is how he's never seen eyes as blue as hers.

His heart seems to be beating incredibly loudly all of a sudden, and he takes a deep breath before waving his hand dismissively. "It's no matter," he shrugs, flustered. She's still holding his hand, and he forces himself to pull his hand back, looking away from her as he does. It's just, he's not used to being touched and his heart still feels like it's going way too fast.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can still see her smiling at him, but he just starts the car and points it in the direction of his apartment, trying not to think too much about what he’s doing, taking care of her like she’s a lost kitten and not a malnourished prostitute, a girl who he’s got no earthly business bringing home with him.


	2. Gold (part 1b)

The drive to his apartment is slow and precarious. The streets are slick from the snow, so Gold has to keep his focus on the road, making sure the cruiser doesn’t slide on the ice. 

When he tells her that he’s taking her home, to his apartment, Belle is quiet, so much so that he’s worried that she’s having second thoughts about getting in the car with him. 

After a few minutes, he hazards a quick glance in her direction, figuring he’ll ask her if she’s sure she wants to stay with him tonight, but when he looks over at her, she’s asleep, her body turned to face him, her feet curled up on the seat beneath her. Her breathing is slow and heavy, and she looks incredibly peaceful, despite the smeared makeup and the heavy rattling in her chest every time she breathes. At least the shivering from earlier seems to have stopped completely and her color is a little better, so he figures he probably doesn't need to race her to the emergency room or the like.

He’s studying her so closely, distracted from keeping his eyes on the darkened streets, that he doesn’t see an ice slick, and the car fishtails precariously when he hits is, spinning in a way that makes his stomach lurch. Gold curses under his breath and struggles to get the car back in line, wrenching his gaze away from Belle and back to the road in front of him.

Once he's got everything back under control, he takes a deep breath, tightening his hands on the steering wheel and reminding himself that he should probably be spending a little less time staring moonily at the sick hooker in the front seat and a little more ensuring they make it back to his place alive.

Through all of this, Belle doesn’t wake up, just coughs softly in her sleep and huddles further down into the seat as the cruiser swerves precariously across the asphalt. 

For the rest of the drive, Gold manages to keep his eyes on the road, and they make it to his apartment without further incident. 

Belle's still sleeping next to him, and he watches her for a couple of minutes. He can still feel the touch of her skin against his, from when she held his hand after they left the diner, and it’s messing with his head in a way he can't quite explain. After all, it’s not as though touching him was some kind of dramatic expression of feeling. Her _job_ is touching people, for Christ's sake. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly.

Besides, he reminds himself, he's a cop and he's got at least twenty years on her, and, despite Sheriff Swan's occasionally lackadaisical attitude about the goings-on of Storybrooke, he's pretty sure she'd have a problem with one of her detectives acting like a lovesick schoolboy over a homeless street kid. Holding his hand wasn't anything other than a small gesture of gratitude, he tells himself, so he needs to just let it go. He scrubs a hand over his face and turns off the car.

“Belle,” he says, keeping his voice low enough so that he doesn’t startle her. She doesn’t wake up though, so he tries again, a little bit louder. When she still doesn’t move, he reaches over and touches her gently on the cheek, ghosting his fingers over her skin. Her skin is cool, but incredibly soft and he can't stop himself from reaching over and tucking a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

He's still touching her when she wakes up with a start, and he pulls his hand back guiltily, feeling caught.

But Belle just smiles at him softly, like she's happy to see him. “Hi,” she says, leaning her cheek against the back of the seat. 

“Hey,” he says, not able to stop himself from smiling back at her. “We’re here." 

“Oh,” she says, still with that soft smile. After a few seconds, she yawns and glances out the window, probably trying to figure out exactly where they are. 

“That’s me,” he says, pointing at his window. 

“You live over a pawn shop?” she asks skeptically, looking at him sidelong.

“I got a good deal on it,” he tells her wryly, getting out of the car and leading Belle up the stairs to his place.

*

Gold had assumed that she’d want to shower and go to sleep first thing, but instead she makes her way slowly around his apartment, examining his things. She spends quite a long time at his bookshelf, running her fingers slowly over the spines of the books, occasionally pulling one out and studying the cover with a little half-smile.

While she investigates, Gold straightens up a bit, tossing his breakfast dishes into the sink and collecting some of the dirty laundry that has piled up on the sofa over the past few days. He gets so distracted that he doesn’t notice when she makes her way over to the mantle, examining the small collections of photographs he’s got there.

“Who’s this?” she asks, holding up a picture of Bae, the one where he’s holding a soccer ball and smiling brightly at the camera, and Gold has to take a deep breath before he can bring himself to answer.

“That’s my son,” he tells her. In the picture, Bae’s only seven, his smile unguarded and his hair an unruly mess.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” she says, giving him a sideways smile. “Where is he now?”

He takes the picture from her, setting it carefully down on the mantle again. 

“I lost him,” he says quietly. He hasn’t talked about Bae in many, many years and the thought of doing it now, of telling Belle about him, makes him feel unbearably sad.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him sincerely, biting her lip and looking sadly at the picture of Bae. 

“Yes, well,” Gold says, not wanting to talk about it any more and certain she doesn’t want to listen to long-past tragedies of his life. He turns away from the pictures and looks Belle up and down, taking in her wet, threadbare sweaters and her snow-damp jeans. “Let’s get you out of those clothes, shall we?” 

Belle starts. “Oh-okay,” she stutters, reaching out a putting her hand awkwardly on his chest, right above his heart, and stepping closer to him nervously.

He can feel her breath against his lips, sweet and warm, and Gold just stands there, not moving, not sure what's going on. It’s not until she looks down, starts pulling up the hem of her sweater, that he realizes what she’s doing, what she thought he meant, and then he’s grabbing her wrist to make her stop, more roughly than he means to.

“Christ, no,” he says, letting go of her and stepping back from her. "Jesus, Belle!" He's not able to stop from sounding horrified, even when her face falls, her eyes welling up with tears. Her sweater is rucked up a little, exposing a thin line of the bone-white skin of her stomach and her wrist looks red from where he grabbed it. “Belle, you don’t need to do that, that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh,” she says, wrapping her arms tightly around herself and staring at the floor. “I didn’t realize...I mean, I didn’t...I know you’re...and I’m...Please, Detective Gold. I am really, _really_ sorry.”

She looks confused and embarrassed and maybe even a little hurt. Like the idea that he wouldn’t want to use her for sex is some kind of painful rejection of her as person. Gold sighs and scrubs a hand across his face, feeling suddenly exhausted.

“No, I’m sorry,” he waves his hand, forcing himself to soften his tone. The sick thing is, he does want her, wants to touch her and taste her, wants to pull those horribly filthy clothes off of her and wrap himself around her instead. “I just...that’s not what I meant. You don’t owe me anything, all right? Certainly not that.” 

Belle nods, taking a deep shaky breath, and then she’s coughing, her body shaking violently. He rushes back over to her, rubbing her back tentatively, sliding his fingers over the hard, pronounced line of her spine. She sounds terrible, the cough rattling and thick, and Gold’s pretty sure he’s going to need to take her to the hospital at some point because it’s likely she’s contracted pneumonia or whooping cough or something equally horrible. 

He knows she’s been out on the streets for a long time--a couple of months at least--but he’s got no idea where she sleeps every night, if she has a safe place to go or if she just takes cover where she can, huddled up in a doorway or hiding out in abandoned buildings or something equally perilous. He thinks again about what Sheriff Swan said, about Belle’s father and the bruises when she was a kid, and about how she was out there tonight, freezing to death during a god damn blizzard because she’s got nowhere else to go. 

He keeps rubbing her back even after the coughing subsides. And she sighs and leans into his hand, pressing herself closer to him. Gold knows he should stop, that he’s probably sending her all kinds of confusing mixed signals, but she’s just so fragile and lost and no one has needed him like this in a very long time. 

After a few minutes he finally steps away. “Okay,” he says, trying not to notice the way she’s looking at him, her blue eyes bright and trusting again. “Let’s see if we can find you something warm to wear.”

She follows him into his bedroom, hovering just inside the doorway while he goes to his closet to find her something suitable to wear. It’s not like he has much in the way of women’s clothing laying around, so he ends up just grabbing a pair of soft gray sweatpants and an old t-shirt, navy with _Storybrooke P.D._ emblazoned on the front in block letters. 

He hands her the clothes and a clean towel and steers her towards the bathroom, telling her to takes as long as she needs, to use whatever she wants. She just nods, doing that lip biting thing again, a habit he has already begun to find strangely endearing.

“Okay, well. Let me know if you need anything,” he tells her. He turns and heads for the living room so she can have some privacy.

“Detective Gold,” she calls. When he turns around, she’s clutching the borrowed clothes to her chest, a look of such open gratitude on his face that makes his chest feel tight.

“Yes, dear?”

“Thank you,” she says, leaning up to press a quick kiss against his cheek. It's not at all like before, when she was touching him because she felt like she had to, like he required some kind of payment for his kindness, and it flusters him, this simple gesture from her.

“‘S no matter,” he tells her, shrugging and trying to keep his voice level.

After a moment she turns and goes into the bathroom, and Gold stands there until he hears the shower start up, trying not to think about how he can still feel the press of her lips against his cheek, or about how, in that moment, he was as happy as he’s been in years.


	3. Belle (part 1)

Belle stays in the shower for a long time, running the water as hot as she can stand. She finally stopped shivering sometime after Detective Gold bought her dinner, but she’s still freezing, a chill that seems to have seeped all the way down to her bones. But after just a couple of minutes under the hot water, she starts to feel better, even her cough seeming to clear up a little under the steam.

She uses his shampoo and his conditioner, relishing the clean, vaguely herbal scent of them, lathering and rinsing over and over again until the water starts to turn cold. 

As she dries off, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and, god, she looks terrible. Her nose is bright red and her lips are chapped and dry, and she’s way too thin, her ribs and hipbones jutting out. There's a series of finger-shaped bruises up and down her arms from when Gaston agreed to take some of the money her father still owes him out in trade, and they stand out starkly against her too-pale skin. 

She sighs and turns away from the mirror as she finishes drying off, scrubbing the towel roughly over her skin. 

The shirt Detective Gold lent her is one from the police department -- which, that feels kind of weird, wearing a cop’s shirt -- but it’s clean and soft, and smells kind of like him, a fact which makes her stomach flip pleasantly, at least until she remembers their encounter earlier, and her face gets hot with shame. 

It’s just...she forgot what it was like, being treated like a regular person, one who could do things like go out to dinner without worrying about what kind of degrading things she’d have to do to pay for it afterwards. So it was easy to just assume he’d ask for something in return, even if he did look horrified at the mere suggestion of sleeping with her. And Belle knows she should actually be grateful for that, but it just makes her feel off-kilter and confused, not sure what to expect. 

By the time she finally screws up her courage and makes it back out into the living room, he’s sitting on the couch, dressed in a pair of gray cotton pajama pants and a white t-shirt, his bare feet kicked up on the coffee table in front of him. There’s a glass of what looks like scotch held loosely in one hand, and the television’s on, playing an old black and white movie with the volume turned down low. Sitting there with his bare feet and his slightly rumpled hair, he looks strangely vulnerable, his features soft in the dim light. 

She just stands there for a few seconds, not sure what to do. “Hi,” she finally says, taking a few steps closer to him.

“Hey.” His face softens when he sees her, and he nods at the open spot on the couch next to him, gesturing for her to sit. 

The movie he’s watching is one of those screwball comedies from the '40s, the ones where the man and the woman talk really fast and pretend they can’t stand each other and then end up madly in love by the time the credits roll, and Belle watches it with a little smile. 

“Feeling better?” Gold asks after a couple of minutes, glancing at her sidelong. 

Belle nods. “My throat’s still a bit sore,” she tells him apologetically.

“Here,” he says, handing her his glass.

She raises her eyebrows in question and he smirks. “It’ll help with your cough,” he tells her. “Trust me.”

And she does -- she does trust him -- so she leans over to take the glass from him, shifting a little on the couch so that they end up touching, their sides pressed together. She takes a small sip, gasping at the taste even as the sting in her throat starts to ease. 

“Thank you,” she manages, handing him back the glass, her fingers brushing up against his. 

Gold glances down at where their hands are touching, this sweet expression on his face, but then he must notice the bruises on her arms, because his expression changes, his jaw clenching so hard she can see the muscles in his face jump. 

Belle flushes, pulling her hand away and tugging nervously at the sleeve of the borrowed shirt as she looks down steadily at her lap. 

“Occupational hazard,” she says by way of explanation, shrugging a little because it’s seriously not that big of a deal. 

He apparently doesn’t agree though, because his face gets this look she doesn’t recognize, dark and dangerous. “Who did this to you?” he demands. 

“I...I don’t know,” she lies, glancing up at the television. Onscreen, the man and woman are arguing, standing nose to nose, so close they're practically touching. “He didn’t tell me his name.” 

She’s not sure why she doesn’t want to tell him the truth -- it’s certainly not out of concern for Gaston -- but she doesn’t like the look in Gold’s eyes, hard and cold, like he’s suddenly a different person. 

Belle just doesn’t want to talk about this any more -- doesn’t want to think about it even, about Gaston or what she has to do every day or about some of the less than kind things she’s heard about Detective Gold -- so she just keeps her eyes trained on the television, watching as the couple’s argument turns into a passionate kiss.

After a moment, he reaches over and tentatively trails his fingers over the marks. They’ve already started to heal, the blue-black turning a sickly purplish-green, but they’re still a little tender, and she winces when his fingers encounter the worst of them. 

“Oh, Belle,” he murmurs sadly, like the bruises are really that terrible, and she swallows hard, trying not to think about how he’d react if she told him about some of the other stuff that’s happened to her out there. 

“I’m really tired,” she says apologetically, feeling weirdly horrified that he’s being so nice to her. Like she’s someone he actually cares about and not just some whore who’s not smart enough to get out of a blizzard. 

“Yes. Yes, of course you are,” he says, his demeanor shifting suddenly into a kind of brusque professionalism. He pulls his hand away from her arm, which makes her feel suddenly, terribly sad. It’s just that no one has touched her like that in a long time, touched her like they care about her, like she’s an actual person.

“I just put clean linens on the bed,” he tells her, gesturing towards the bedroom. “And I’ll be right out here if you need anything.”

“Oh, no," she protests, because he isn't really going to sleep on the couch just so she can have his bed, is he? "The couch is fine for me." 

“Now what kind of host would I be if I let a guest sleep on the couch?” he says, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest and a hint of teasing in his tone. “Think of my reputation, dearie.”

Belle laughs a little at that, and she catches a flicker of surprised pleasure on his face before she suddenly starts coughing again, not as bad as before, but still enough to make her throat hurt and her chest ache.

“Here,” Detective Gold says, handing her his glass of whisky. Belle takes it from his gratefully, finishing off the drink in a few short sips. Her throat starts to feel better, but the alcohol seems to hit her almost immediately, leaving her light-headed.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and holding out his hand for her to take. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She lets him help her up and then leans on him as he lead her back to the bedroom, not sure she’d be able to walk steadily right now. His bed is big, and when he pulls back the covers, the sheets are clean and soft and smell like laundry detergent. It’s such a small, simple thing, but she hasn’t slept in a bed like this in longer than she can remember, and she feels the sharp prick of tears behind her eyes as he tucks her in. 

Before he turns out the light, Gold reaches out and smooths a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear, and it takes everything in Belle’s body not to beg him to stay with her.

*

She wakes up in the middle of the night with a hacking cough, sweating even though she's freezing cold and shivering violently. Once she gets her bearings, she tries to muffle the coughs in the pillow so she doesn’t wake up Detective Gold, but after just a couple of minutes she hears the door open.

“Belle?” he says, standing in the doorway and sounding worried. She’s having trouble catching her breath, so she can’t answer. He makes his way over to her, pressing one hand against her forehead. His skin feels amazing against hers, cool and dry, and she leans into him gratefully.

“Christ, Belle,” he breathes. “You’re burning up. We should get you to a doctor.”

“No,” she says, panicked. She forces herself to relax, taking a deep breath even though it makes her throat burn. “No, please. I’m fine. Really.” 

He looks unsure, which makes sense because he’s probably thinking about how he’ll lose his job if he ends up with a dead hooker in his bed. But Belle would just really rather stay here with him. Besides, she can’t afford to go to the doctor anyway; it’s not like street whores get medical benefits or anything. Plus, she’s pretty sure that if they do go to the emergency room, they’ll try to call her father and, just. 

“Please,” she says again, and she reaches out and takes his hand.

He inhales sharply when she touches him, but he doesn’t pull away, so she figures it must be okay. 

“I’m okay here,” she tells him. “I promise.” 

Gold looks doubtful, but doesn’t say anything, just rubs his thumb gently over the back of her hand. He’s got nice hands, she notices, his fingers long and graceful.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Belle?” he finally asks. He’s still moving his thumb over her knuckles, his skin cool and comforting against hers, and the way he says her name, with this sort of quiet gentleness, makes her breath catch in her throat.

She bites her lip and thinks for a second. “Do you have any tea?”

He smiles at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners in this way that she finds completely endearing. “Indeed, I do, my dear,” he tells her, gently extricating his hand from hers and heading out to the kitchen.

While he’s gone, Belle just lies quietly and studies his room. There’s another picture of his son on the nightstand, and the boy looks older in this one, almost a teenager, and Belle wonders what happened to him, how long he’s been gone. 

When he comes back into the room, he’s holding a tea tray loaded down with stuff -- there's a tea cup and a little bowl of sugar and a bottle of aspirin and some cough syrup and a glass of ice water. He helps her sit up, and then measures out a dose of the cough syrup and makes her take it and drink some water and take some aspirin. 

Once she manages to choke all of that down, he hands her the teacup, white with a delicate blue pattern. The tea smells wonderful, sweet and kind of citrusy, and as she takes a sip, she sighs, the warmth of it soothing her throat almost immediately. 

She’s almost done with the tea when she starts coughing again, the cup slipping from her hands and hitting the floor with a quiet thud.

“Oh,” she gasps, reaching over quickly to pick it up. The sudden movement leaves her light-headed, and she closes her eyes before looking down at the damage. “It’s chipped,” she tells him apologetically, biting her lip. It's actually a pretty bad crack -- the cup is obviously ruined -- but she just holds it out to him and says, “You can hardly see it.” 

He just watches her, this look on his face that she can’t decipher, and she starts to feel a little nervous, like maybe this is it, that somehow breaking a stupid teacup is going to be the final straw for him.

But instead: “It’s just a cup,” he says, shrugging and placing it back on the tea tray. 

She smiles at him, relieved. But then he’s getting up to leave, and, this time, Belle can’t stop herself from reaching out and grabbing his hand.

“Stay,” she says, holding loosely onto his wrist, her fingers stroking gently over the pulse point. 

She hears his breath hitch in his throat, and he’s giving her this look that makes her heart pound and her breath come fast and shallow, in a way that has nothing to do with being sick, and she just really, really doesn't want him to leave again. So she tugs gently on his wrist, pulling him closer to her. 

He closes his eyes and swallows hard, and she thinks maybe she’s gone too far, that he’s going to leave, pull away from her again, but then he’s climbing into the bed, moving so that he can lie next to her. There's tension radiating through his body and he's holding himself like he’s scared to touch her, but Belle cuddles up next to him, laying her head on his chest and hooking one leg over his.

She can feel his heartbeat, a steady, gentle pounding against her temple, and she lets the the sound lull her closer to sleep.

After a couple of minutes, the tension in his body seems to ease, and he reaches up to wrap one arm around her, his hand coming to rest just above her hip. Her shirt’s gotten pulled up a little, just enough to expose a thin strip of skin, and Gold strokes his thumb against her there, drawing invisible patterns on her side. 

Belle closes her eyes and concentrates on the movement, the soothing circles he’s tracing with his thumb, her eyes fixing briefly on the chipped cup on the nightstand before she falls easily, gratefully into sleep.


	4. Gold (part 2)

Gold wakes up with Belle wrapped around him, her body warm and loose-limbed against his. They’ve somehow managed to get all tangled up in their sleep, and she has one hand snaked up under his shirt, the flat of her palm against his stomach. 

Gold’s still got one hand on her hip, his fingertips tucked under the waistband of her borrowed pajama pants, and he can feel the smooth, hard lines of her hipbones under his fingers. 

With her face scrubbed clean of makeup, wearing his too-big clothes, she looks even younger than she did last night, small and vulnerable and impossibly fragile. 

The bruises on her arms look even worse in the dim morning light, a sickly violet-green against her pale, white skin. The worst of them are still an ugly shade of black, and he tries not to think too much about how much it must have hurt her in the first place. They’re clearly from someone’s hand, from when someone grabbed her, held her down, and Gold clenches his jaw, promising himself that if he ever finds the man who did this to Belle, he’ll kill him. 

He lies there like that for a long time, afraid to move for fear of waking her, tracing his fingertips lightly around the marks on her skin.

He's not scheduled to work today, but, lying there with Belle, he decides he'll go in for a few hours, see what he can dig up on Moe French, maybe look through arrest records for out near the town line, see what names pop up, if there are any with a history of beating up on the girls down there. He's so caught up in his plan, on deciding exactly what his next move will be, that he doesn't realize Belle's awake until she starts talking.

“It’s not that bad,” Belle says, startling him even though her voice is barely a whipser. 

“What’s not?” he says, his voice matching hers, whisper for whisper. He’s still staring at her arms, ghosting his fingertips over the marks on her skin, touching her like he could make them vanish if he just wants it enough, like he could heal her through magic.

Belle coughs before she can answer, and his fingers still, waiting it out. No matter how much she opposes it, she’s going to need to see a doctor. Sooner rather than later. 

“Being out there,” she finally says. “I know it seems terrible, but,” she shrugs, her body hitching slightly against his chest. “You get used to it.”

That’s probably the worst thing she could have said, and Gold closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You shouldn’t have to,” he tells her, and she smiles up at him, young and lovely and sad. 

He just wants to hold her like this forever and never let her go, never let her return to the streets filled with whatever kind of monsters would harm a creature as lovely as her.

But the truth of it is, even though he’d let her stay here as long as she’d like, he knows how unlikely that is to happen. Because if there’s anything that Gold knows with absolute certainty, it’s that happily-ever-after is just for fairy tales, and here in the real world, true love almost never saves the day. 

*

Before he heads out to the station, he stocks the table beside the bed with tissues and cough syrup and tylenol, leaving Belle with strict instructions that she should do nothing but rest and telling her he’ll be back by lunch with soup from Granny's. 

Outside, the snow is still falling heavily and the air is cold and biting, and Gold tries not to think too hard about what would have happened to Belle if he hadn’t happened by. 

His first stop before he goes to the station is the hospital. Dr. Whale owes him a favor, one from long ago when Gold helped get his brother out of a rather delicate situation with an illegal bookmaking ring, and Gold is quite positive the good doctor will consider a simple prescription for antibiotics a favorable bargain. 

As predicted, Whale agrees to his deal easily, and Gold pockets the pills before he makes his way over to the station to see what he can find on Moe French.

*

Mr. French’s record turns out to be rather lengthy, and it takes Gold most of the morning to sort through it. Most of the entries are misdemeanors -- domestic assaults and drunk and disorderlies, with a few minor gambling charges thrown in for good measure. He's a two-bit criminal, just a bully and a drunk, so low down on the food chain that even in twenty years working vice, Gold's never had an encounter with the man.

Belle’s name is mentioned a few times, as both a witness and a victim, and Gold reads through these reports with particular care, noting every recorded bruise, scrape, and broken bone. Once he finishes with Mr. French's file, he pulls up the reports on the corner out near the library. Most of the arrests are simple prostitution and solicitation charges, but there's one name -- Gaston -- that appears over and over again, usually alongside charges of battery and assault on some of the girls Gold knows are regulars down there.

It takes him a few hours to finally finish reading everything, and he’s practically trembling with rage by the time he’s done. 

Before he logs out of the system, he prints out a copy of the files for both Moe and Gaston, tucking them carefully into a file folder. He’s not yet sure what he plans to do with them, but he is positive he will be needing them sometime in the very near future.

*

When he gets back to the apartment, it’s quiet inside, so silent that he has a momentary surge of panic thinking that Belle has left. But she’s back in his bed, sleeping fitfully, the covers kicked off her body. He can hear her labored breathing from across the room, which can’t be a good sign.

So he wakes her up, and she gives him one of those soft smiles, even though her eyes are glassy and fever bright. 

“Hey,” she says, her voice raspy with sleep. “You’re home.”

“I’m home,” he confirms, taking the antibiotics out of his pocket and shaking out a couple of pills.

“Good,” she says, still with that sleep-soft smile. “I missed you.”

Gold’s heart feels, for one bizarre moment, like it’s not beating right, like it’s stuttering in his chest, and he focuses on taking out the plastic containers of soup, avoiding Belle’s eyes. 

Her chipped cup is still on the nightstand, sitting next an old dog-eared paperback copy of _The Wind in the Willows_. The book used to be Bae’s, he realizes -- it was his favorite, but Gold forget he even still had it. Belle must have found it on one of the bookshelves in the living room, and Gold gets that old, familiar pang, the one he always get when he's reminded of his son.

After a moment, he forces himself to look away from the book, and he hands Belle the antibiotics and watches as she takes them with a large glass of water. Once she takes the pills, he hands her the bowl of soup, the two of them eating together in a strangely comfortable silence. By the time she’s finished, she already looks a bit better, the color back in her cheeks, and he tucks her back in and asks if she needs anything else. 

She nods at the book on the nightstand, and he tries to hand it to her, but she’s already snuggled down into the covers, her hands curled up under her chin. 

“Read to me?” she asks. 

He intends to say no because he'd like to get back to the files, to determine what should be done about Gaston and Moe French, but she’s still looking at him with that open, soft expression on her face, so he just gets into bed next to her, still wearing his shirt and tie, sitting with his back propped up against the headboard. 

Belle cuddles up next to him, one leg hooked over his, and Gold has to force himself to concentrate on the book, on reading Belle a story he must have read a hundred times, back when Bae was a just a boy. 

He reads to her until she falls asleep, her breathing deep and even, and then Gold sets the book carefully back on the table, closing his eyes and holding Belle close to him.

*

When Gold wakes up, Belle’s body is tucked closely to his, and she’s pressing gentle kisses to his neck, working up to his jaw, her lips grazing hot and wet against his skin. Gold doesn’t move, doesn’t even open his eyes, for fear that he might be dreaming. 

It’s not until her lips touch his that he opens his eyes, and when he does, she pulls back just enough to look at him. Her eyes are so startlingly blue.

Belle’s giving his this kind of gentle smile, and she’s moved so that she’s on his lap, her knees on either side of him. She’s still just wearing that damn t-shirt and those thin cotton pants, looking young and impossibly innocent as she leans in to kiss him again, her mouth hot and insistent against his. 

He kisses her back without quite meaning to, everything seeming kind of hazy and unreal. He’s not sure if it’s morning or evening, the light in the room dim with what could either be twilight or dawn. 

Belle slides her tongue against his lower lip and he opens his mouth under hers, his hands coming to rest on her hips as she rocks against him. She kisses him like she means it, making these soft, hungry noises, as she starts to pull on his tie, working at the knot before slipping her hand inside his shirt, unbuttoning it with quick, deft movements.

“Belle,” he says, his voice coming out kind of low and raspy. He reaches up and trails his fingers over her cheek, brushing the his thumb over the curve of her jaw, looking at her wonderingly. “What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer, just makes this sort of low humming noise of satisfaction as she moves her hand lower, rubbing him through his pants and smiling against his mouth when he groans a little.

“Belle,” he says again, willing himself to focus on something other than what she’s doing with her hand, on the way her fingers are stroking his cock. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want this (because, _Christ,_ does he want this, wants this more than he’s ever wanted _anything_ ), but he spent half the day reading about the horrors of her childhood, and he just. He’s not sure he’ll be able to live with himself if he takes advantage of her, hurts her in the same kind of way she’s been hurt her entire life. 

“Well, I’m feeling better,” she finally murmurs, punctuating her words with soft kisses along his jaw. “And...” she runs her tongue along his skin, nipping at the pulse point in this throat. “I wanted to thank you.”

And it’s like she’s hit him, and he jerks away from her, so fast that she gasps, falling off to the side so that she’s no longer on top of him. 

Gold feels like a fool, like a goddamn idiot, because of course she doesn’t actually want him, could never want him. 

He gets up, his movements jerky, and she’s just looking at him, confused and hurt, her dark hair wild around her face. 

“I don’t want your _gratitude,_ dearie,” he sneers, not caring how cruel he sounds.

“No, that’s not what I meant -- ” she starts, but he ignores her, moving away from the bed as quickly as he can, trying to get some distance between them, not wanting to hear anything else she has to say.

He’s already halfway across the room, trying to get his clothes back in order, to get his shirt buttoned again, when she calls out to him again, her voice sad and desperate. 

“Detective Gold...” she says, but doesn’t finish, which is a blessing since he already feels like complete shit. Because, yeah, he’s a fucking _cop_ , and she’s basically an abused street kid, one who doesn’t even know his first name. 

Christ, he’s supposed to be watching out for her, not taking advantage of her while she’s out of her mind with a fever, not thinking about how soft her skin is, how amazing she tastes. And just, Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with him?

When he glances over at her, her eyes are bright with tears, like him rejecting her attempts to pay him with sex are some kind of terrible cruelty. Fuck. This is a complete disaster. He runs a hand through his hair and turns around again, his back to her. 

“You should get some rest,” he says coldly. He hears her shift around on the bed, struggling with the sheets, and when he turns around, it looks like she’s trying to get out of bed. 

“Gold,” she calls, and her voice sounds different now, harder and less desperate, more like it did that first day they met, when she didn’t run from him, standing on the corner all strength and bravado. 

For a second, he’s tempted to stay in the room, to hear her out, but this needs to end. This isn’t forever, this isn’t a relationship, and the sooner they both realize that, the better.

He’s almost to the door when he hears her feet hit the floor, and he turns just in time to see her stumble, her legs giving out beneath her, and he rushes over to her, wrapping his arms around her, steadying her before she falls, vaguely registering that even as he holds her up, she’s trying to push him away.


	5. Belle (part 2)

As soon as her feet hit the floor, Belle realizes she's made a mistake.

The room starts to spin as a wave of light-headedness hits her, and she stumbles, her knees buckling. But before she hits the ground, Gold’s there, his arms around her, catching her and holding her up.

His arms are warm and strong against her, but Belle almost wishes he would've just let her fall. At least then she’d have one less thing to worry about when he finally decides he wants payment for everything he’s done for her.

She shoves him away with all the strength she can muster, which isn’t much. He doesn’t even react at first, just scoops her up, one hand under her knees and the other secure against her back, lifting her easily, touching her so carefully it's like he thinks she might break.

She pushes against him again when he sets her down on the bed, her palms flat on his chest, and this time he does react, stepping away from her quickly, his hands raised as if in surrender.

“Belle?” he asks, his voice soft again.

“You don’t get to tell me what I can do, or how I feel,” she tells him.

Gold blinks. “I’m not -- ” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“No, you are,” she tells him. She’s breathing heavy, part in anger, part in exhaustion, and her throat feels like it’s on fire. “You’re taking what I say and twisting it into something I don’t mean.”

“Oh, and what _do_ you mean, dearie?” His voice has turned hard again, but that almost makes Belle feel better; she's used to cruelty, to men who think she’s just a dumb whore.

“What I mean,” she says, tipping her chin up to look him in the eye, “is that I want to do this.”

His expression softens, and he sits down beside her, leaning close and tilting his head as he studies her. “Why?” 

She shrugs, trying to think of a way to explain it that doesn’t mention gratitude.

“Because I’m feeling better,” she finally says. "And that’s because of you."

Gold looks away from her, like she’s said the wrong thing, so she reaches out and takes his hand, holding it in hers. 

“And because,” she shrugs, feeling suddenly very young and like she’s admitting something she shouldn’t. “I like you.”

“You _like_ me?” he repeats, incredulous.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Belle says.

"Yes, actually." 

This whole conversation is getting exhausting, and she doubts she’s going to be able to convince him that she wants this, especially not with her head still a little fuzzy from the fever and the cold medicine. So she just puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses him, a chaste press of her lips against his. 

He kisses her back, tentatively at first, like he thinks she’s going to change her mind, despite the fact that she’s practically throwing herself at him for the third time in two days. But by the time she gets his tie off and starts in on his shirt buttons again, he’s sliding his hands around her waist, deepening the kiss and pulling her onto his lap, her knees on either side of his hips.

Belle pushes his shirt off his shoulders as he presses soft kisses against her jaw, trailing his lips down her neck. She studies him in the dim light of the bedroom, ghosting her fingers over the tan skin on his shoulders and the sparse smattering of hair on his chest. There’s a mark on his right arm, up near his shoulder, and it takes her a second to realize it’s a tattoo.

“Is that a...lizard?” she asks, tilting her head and squinting at it, trying to make it out in the darkness of the room.

“Aye,” he murmurs distractedly, his lips moving at the pulse point on her neck.

Belle laughs, strangely delighted at this discovery, and leans down to trace the shape of the design with her tongue. She hears Gold suck in a quick breath when her mouth touches his bicep, and she smiles to herself as she starts trailing soft kisses over his arm, trying to see if she can taste a difference in the salty smoothness of his skin where the ink marks him. 

He makes a quiet noise of pleasure, and she reaches for the zipper on his trousers. He groans when her fingers brush against his cock, and his hips jerk into her hand. She smirks, nipping at his lower lip, but then he’s reaching out and taking hold of her wrist, careful not to touch any of the bruises there, gently tugging her hand away. 

It's obvious that he wants her, his cock hard and hot against her thigh, so she’s not really sure what he’s doing, why he’s making this into such a big deal.

It’s just sex; it’s not like she’s promising him her soul or something.

“Is -- is something wrong?” she asks, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. 

“Certainly not,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to her mouth. He glances back up at her, all warm brown eyes, and then kisses her again, sweeping his tongue along her bottom lip, soothing it along the slightly raw spot where she’s always biting at it.

She opens her mouth under his, giving in to the kiss, letting him set the pace of things for now, the two of them going slow, just kissing for what feels like forever. 

Belle doesn’t think she’s ever kissed anyone for as long as she kisses him; most guys don’t want to waste their twenty bucks on tenderly stroking her hair or brushing their lips softly on the spot below her ear.

It’s nice, she decides, cupping one hand on the back of his neck, his hair silky-smooth beneath her fingers as she concentrates on the feel of his stubble rasping against her cheeks and the taste of him in her mouth. 

When he slides his hand under her t-shirt, she gasps at the sensation, surging against him as his thumbs graze her nipples. He reaches down and grabs the hem of her shirt; she raises her arms to let him take it off. He cups her breasts in his hands, lightly rolling her nipples between slightly calloused fingers. 

When he starts kissing a slow line down her neck, pausing to lick and suck at the hollow of her collarbone, Belle can’t stop the small, desperate noise that escapes her.

He smiles against her skin at the sound, nipping gently at her shoulder before he moves lower, taking one nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue against her, licking and sucking at her breasts until she’s squirming in his lap, tightening her her knees around his thighs.

It’s never been like this, not ever, not in the million times she’s done this in dirty alleyways and rent-by-the-hour motel rooms, and, after a while, she starts to feel kind of off-balance and confused. It’s just...she knows he wants more than this, can feel his cock straining against her, but he’s not making any move to do anything other than this, seemingly content to just kiss her and touch her, like it’s all that matters to him. 

Finally, she can’t take it anymore and she pushes her hips into his with purpose, smirking a little when he groans, his fingers tightening around her breasts. For just a second, she feels like she’s on solid ground, like she’s back in a space that feels familiar to her, doing something she’s done countless times before. 

But then Gold is pushing her sweatpants down off her hips, his hand gliding down her belly, reaching lower and lower until his fingers are sliding through her wetness, teasing her and stroking her, and it feels unbelievable, so amazing that, for just a few moments, she forgets what she is and how this is supposed to go, how it should be harsh and sharp and ugly. 

Belle closes her eyes and presses her forehead against his. His skin is hot and sweat-slick, the ends of his hair brushing her face, sticking lightly to her skin, and she kisses him again, his lips swollen and red.

There’s this kind of hot, trembling need filling her up, making her whimper until he slips one finger inside of her, then two, twisting and sliding inside of her.

She can feel him smiling against her mouth as she gasps, grinding herself against his fingers. And it’s not fair, how he’s still half-dressed and she’s completely naked in front of him, so she wrenches his trousers and boxers down in one quick move, evening things out a little. 

God, he’s so hard, his cock straining thick and dark against his stomach, and when she reaches out and brushes her thumb along the slit at the head, he jerks against her, his fingers sliding out of her.

She rises up on her knees and then lowers herself onto him, taking the thick, solid weight of him inside of her in one swift movement. He groans and clutches at her hip, hard enough that it might bruise, and Belle finally starts to feel like she’s on solid ground.

“Oh, Belle,” he murmurs with this kind of sincere reverence that makes her heart flip in her chest.

Now that he's inside of her, that hot, almost painful need eases a little, but it’s not the relief she thought it would be, and she whimpers before she can stop herself. He smiles slightly at that, and kisses her again, tender and sweet, like he's happy she's enjoying it, like that actually matters to him, and then he’s touching her again, using his fingers against her, circling and teasing until she's writhing helplessly, and she closes her eyes and arches against him, her hips moving harder and faster.

He keeps one palm cupped against the back of her neck, his fingers tangled in her hair, talking to her, telling her how beautiful she is, how perfect and amazing, whispering her name over and over again, like it matters that it’s her, like he wouldn't want her to be anyone else.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until Gold stops moving, both his hands going to her hips, stilling her movements. Her cheeks are damp and her eyes are blurry, and Gold’s looking up at her, his forehead crinkled with worry. 

“Belle?” he says, shakily. “Are you alright?”

He starts to lift her off him, pulling himself out of her, slow and careful.

She grabs his bicep, holding him close to her, holding him inside her. “No, please,” she gasps. His arm tense under her hand, her fingertips digging into his silly tattoo. “Please. Don’t stop.” 

“You’re sure, sweetheart?” he asks tenderly, tracing her cheekbone with his fingertips. 

She closes her eyes at the endearment and nods, not trusting herself to say anything, her chest hitching against his.

He puts his hands on her back, holding her up, steadying her. Just being like this, skin to skin, feeling his heartbeat next to hers, helps a little, but it’s still just all so confusing and strange. 

He’s being way too gentle and way too kind, and she just...it's all just too much. It's like her heart isn't beating right and her skin's too tight and she can't get close enough to him. 

Belle holds on to him tightly, burying her face in his neck, telling herself to relax, to take deep breaths, inhaling Gold’s clean, slightly herbal smell while she tries to get her bearings, tries to regain control of the whole situation. 

The whole time she’s doing this -- freaking out like some kind of psycho just because he’s being gentle with her -- Gold just keeps stroking her back, the same way he did the other night when she couldn’t stop coughing, sweeping, broad strokes from her shoulder blades to her waist.

After a couple of seconds, she pulls back and presses her forehead against his, opening her eyes to see him watching her with something like wonder. She starts moving again, rolling her hips until he's gasping, his breath coming hot and erratic against her face.

Gold cups his hand on the back of her head, stroking her hair gently, talking to her in a steady, comforting whisper, his breath warm against her lips

And, god, she’s so close, the feeling inside of her building and building, but not cresting, and she moves against him more and more desperately, trying to find the right angle as she shifts on top of him. 

“Can you...” she finally manages, biting on her lower lip and trying not to feel ashamed for asking him, for wanting this so much, for making this about her when she meant for it to be about him.

He slides one hand down between their bodies, his clever fingers finding her clit and stroking her in time with his thrusts. The pressure inside of her is maddening, and she whimpers, her movements fast and rough, grinding herself against his fingers and his cock. 

“Oh Belle,” he says, holding her close and saying her name like it matters that she’s her, a real person, not just some street whore who’s only good for a quick fuck. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

It’s the way he says it that pushes her over the edge -- his voice tender and sweet and gentle -- and she cries out, her eyes closed and her forehead pressed painfully against his, shaking and shuddering around him.

As soon as she catches her breath enough to be able to move again, she starts rocking against him in the same rhythm as before. He has his eyes open, watching her, and he reaches up to cup his hand against her face, sliding his thumb across her lips.

Belle sucks his thumb into her mouth, flicking her tongue to taste the salty-sweetness of his skin.

Gold closes his eyes and groans, his body taut and tense against hers as he comes, and she feels another wave of pleasure as he pulses inside of her. He keeps saying her name, repeating it over and over again into the dark, silent bedroom, while Belle buries her face in the crook of his neck, riding it out. 

When she finally stops shaking, she realizes there are tears streaming down her cheeks again, and she can’t understand why it’s like this, it’s never been like this, all of these feelings bubbling up inside of her, and she tries to hide her face against his shoulder, feeling ridiculous.

“Belle,” he whispers, cupping her cheek and wiping away the tears with the pad of his thumb until her face is dry.

He’s being so kind to her, so gentle and she wishes she could thank him or apologize to him or something, but she still feels kind of shaky and confused, not trusting herself to talk right now. So instead she just takes one of his hands in hers, threading their fingers together.

Gold presses a soft kiss against her temple as he pulls out of her slowly. He tenderly strokes her hair, and then pulls back the covers, helping her crawl under them. 

It’s gotten so dark in the room that she can barely see him, but she feels strangely grateful for that. She's glad he can’t see her either, the way she’s so lost and vulnerable. She feels like such a coward for that, but she just. She wasn’t expecting it to be like this. 

Gold slides under the sheets and she presses herself against him, still holding his hand. She lets out a shaky breath when he wraps his arms around her, surprisingly relieved that he's staying with her. It's just that, without him inside of her, Belle feels oddly empty.

It's just sex, she reminds herself, trying hard not to think about how it feels like it might be something more, might be something real and good.

Because the truth is, she knows how this is going to end, and it's not going to be the way it does in the books she reads.

True love and happily-ever-after are just make-believe, not things that happen in the real world, and certainly not to girls like her.


	6. Gold (part 3)

Belle falls asleep fairly quickly, still holding his hand, her breathing slow and even. Gold just lies beside her in the dark, trying not to worry too much about the quiet rattling in her chest when she breathes. 

He’s still not quite sure what time it is, but he’s at least managed to establish that it’s the evening, the light coming in from the window outside getting darker rather than brighter. His heart feels like it’s still racing in his chest, and everything still seems kind of hazy and dream-like. 

Belle is warm beside him, not fever-hot like she was on that first night. He’s going to need to wake her up soon so she can take the next dose of the antibiotics, but he just stays where he is for a little longer, one hand toying absently with her hair. It’s been a very long time since he’s been in bed with anyone, and he somehow forgot how nice it feels.

He doesn't realize he falls asleep until Belle starts coughing, curling up on to her side and pushing her face against the pillow, trying to muffle the worst of it.

“Belle?” he says, snapping to alertness. There's gray early morning light creeping in the window, and Gold rubs his eyes, trying to wake up.

He runs his hands over her back, smoothing his palms over the ridges of her spine. The pills from Dr. Whale are still on the nightstand, so he reaches over and grabs the bottle, shaking out a couple while her coughing tapers off. They’re probably going to have to pay a little more attention to dosage from here on out, he guesses. 

“Time is it?” she mumbles, sounding groggy and still half-asleep. But she takes the pills from him when he holds his hand out, swallowing them with a little wince.

Gold glances at the alarm clock and reaches down to tuck a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “It’s early,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb over the soft line of her cheekbone. 

She gives him a sleepy half-smile and her lips curling sweetly against palm. 

“Go back to sleep,” he tells her, even though they should probably get up, he knows. Neither one have them have had anything to eat since that bowl of soup hours and hours ago, and while he’d like nothing more than to just stay in bed with her all night, that’s probably not the best idea for her. 

But Belle’s lying back down again, snuggling up next to him, her arm thrown across his stomach with a kind of casual intimacy that makes his chest feel tight.

“Hmmm,” she says, nuzzling his neck. She feels amazing against him, her naked skin smooth and soft and warm, and when she starts to kiss him, these soft, glancing brushes of her lips against his throat, all his good intentions just evaporate, leaving behind nothing but the overpowering desire to be inside her once again.

She starts touching him under the covers, sliding her hand down his chest, scraping her nails gently over his stomach until she’s taking him in her hand, her fingers grasping him tightly.

Gold makes a quiet, helpless noise deep in his throat and closes his eyes as she starts to move her hand, just teasing his with her fingertips. At the same time, she kisses her way down his neck, scraping her teeth against one nipple and then the other, before she slides her mouth back up to lap at the hollow of his throat, sliding her tongue along his collarbone. 

She starts stroking her hand against his length, moving her hand up, then down, gentle at first, but then with more urgency. Gold throws his head back, pressing against the pillows. It’s still dark in the room, but he keeps his eyes closed, knowing that if he looks at her -- sees her watching him with her bright blue eyes, touching him with her pale, thin fingers -- he’s going to come all over her hand like a teenager.

“Belle,” he gasps. “Please.”

She’s driving him crazy, pressing these little lapping kisses against his throat while her talented fingers slide over the sensitive skin of his cock over and over and over again, until he can’t think of anything except for her, of the feel of her body against his, of the rose-sweet taste of her skin. 

When she traces the vein on the underside of his cock, he moans, almost embarrassingly loud in the silent room, and he can feel Belle smirk, her lips curling against the sensitive skin of his throat. 

She trails her lips up his neck, sucking and licking at the stubble on his jaw, her mouth working in time with her hand. 

When she bites gently on his earlobe, he groans, not able to stop his hips from surging up into his hand. 

This is all going to be over much too fast if she keeps doing what she’s doing, so he rolls them over until he’s on top of her, her body pinned under his.

He presses her into the mattress, pushing his hips roughly against hers and reaching down to take her wrist, pulling her arm out from between them, trying to get as close to her as possible, her body flush agains this. She’s so tiny, her bones delicate and fragile beneath his fingers as he holds her arm at her side. 

All of a sudden, she’s freezing up beneath him, her body going tense and rigid, and she gets this kind of wide-eyed panicked look about her, her breath turning harsh and labored again. 

Gold lets go of her immediately, sitting up quickly to move his weight off of her, giving her some space, making sure she doesn’t feel trapped. Shit. Shit. _Shit._

“Belle?” he asks, but she’s still just lying there, eyes wide, like an animal caught in a snare. 

Jesus. What the hell was he doing, holding her down like that? It’s not like he didn’t spend most of the morning staring at the bruises on her arms. Fuck. What is wrong with him? 

“Belle?” he tries again, keeping his voice soft and steady, his tone comforting and gentle. “Sweetheart?”

She blinks at that, but there’s still an unsettling blankness behind the blue. She’s still breathing hard, a harsh rasp in the quiet of the bedroom, but after a couple of seconds, she manages to sit up, crossing her arms over her chest and hunching over a little, her body curling into a tight ball, the hard knobs of her spine pressing starkly against her pale, pale skin.

Gold wants to touch her, just take her in his arms and crush her to him and never let anything or anyone hurt her again. But he knows that’s not such a great idea right now, so instead he busies himself by leaning over the edge of the bed, rustling around on the floor, trying to find something for her to put on. 

Their clothes are in a tangled heap, but he manages to extract the sweatpants and t-shirt he lent her as well as his own boxers and undershirt. He throws his own clothes on, trying to give Belle some privacy, a little space to recover. His hands are shaking, he realizes, and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to relax. 

He feels her shift beside him, and when he looks over she’s unfolded herself a little and her breathing has mostly evened out, her chest only hitching every couple of breaths. 

“Hey,” he says, relieved. “You okay?”

She nods, biting on her lower lip and staring down at the sheets. She’s still got her arms crossed over her chest protectively, so he hands her the clothes, setting them down gently on the bed beside her. 

“How about you get dressed,” he says, all false cheer and nonchalance. “And I’ll go make us some breakfast. That sound alright, my dear?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up at the endearment. “Yes,” she says, fairly steadily all things considered. She’s holding the clothes close to her chest, gripping them like they’re a security blanket and not just some second-hand cast-offs that could probably do with a good wash. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

*

Gold heads out into the living room, giving Belle some space, a chance to get her bearings. 

Jesus, he can’t believe he held her down like that, especially after earlier, when she started crying when they were...Gold sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. 

He’s not sure what he’s been doing the past twenty-four hours, what the hell he’s been thinking. The girl is trusting him to take care of her, and that’s what he needs to be doing, not taking advantage of her. So: breakfast. 

Dr. Whale mentioned how important it was to make sure Belle got enough to eat while she was ill, so Gold focuses on finding something to prepare for her breakfast. It’s not like he has guests all that often, but luck is apparently on his side, and he finds some eggs and enough vegetables that he figures he can whip up a pretty convincing omelette.

He can hear Belle walking around in the bedroom, her footsteps echoing quietly on the hardwood. After a couple of minutes, he hears her move into the bathroom, the shower starting up just a few moment later.

While Belle showers, he prepares breakfast, scrambling the eggs and slicing the mushrooms and peppers. He also gets out the files on Moe French and Gaston, re-reading them and paying particular attention to Moe. Gold’s not sure where Gaston fits in yet, or even if he does -- if he’s just a run-of-the-mill scumbag-pimp or if he’s somehow involved with Belle and whatever’s happened to her. 

He’s so engrossed in the files that he doesn’t hear the shower turn off, doesn’t even notice her until she’s closing the bedroom door behind her with a quiet click, standing in his living room dressed in the same clothes she's been wearing for the past two days, her hair loose and wet around her shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, sweeping the files back into the plain manila folder and then shoving them into the junk drawer next to the stove. It’s not that he’s trying to hide them from Belle, exactly. It’s just that she’s had a rough few days and he doesn’t want her worrying about something that’s really none of her concern. 

“Feeling better?” 

She nods rather sheepishly, and for one horrible moment Gold thinks she might apologize to him. He’s not sure he’d be able to take it if she did; after all, he’s the one that owes her an apology. But thankfully, she doesn’t say anything else, just sits down in one of his rickety plastic kitchen chairs, tucking one leg up underneath her.

He slides the omelettes onto a couple of plates, and then sits across from her at the table. She looks a bit better at least, not so pale and shaky.

“So,” she says, taking the plate he’s holding out to her. “I have a question for you.”

“Alright,” he says cautiously. “What would you like to know?” 

“What’s your name?”

“My name?” he repeats, watching as Belle pokes at the omelette with her fork. “It’s Gold, of course.”

“I meant your first name.” Belle rolls her eyes. "It feels strange to call you Detective Gold. After everything..."

“Ah,” he stalls, taking a bite of his breakfast and chewing it slowly. It's not that his name is a secret or anything, he just doesn't particularly like it.

Belle watches him expectantly, still not eating, just cutting the eggs up into smaller and smaller pieces with the side of her fork. 

“Are you going to eat that?” he asks instead of answering her question. “Or just dissect it?”

"Are you going to tell me your name?" Belle counters, one eyebrow quirked in challenge. 

He sighs. “It’s Bertrum,” he says, and she grimaces, scrunching up her face like this is the worst thing she’s ever heard. 

“Do people actually call you that?” she asks skeptically.

“Thankfully, no.”

“So what should I call you, then?” she says, pushing the pieces of the omelet around on her plate thoughtfully. “Bert?”

He sneers. “I should think not.”

She bites her lip, thinking it over. “How about Rum?” she finally says. “That’s not so bad, right? I mean, I kind of like it.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“I think it suits you,” she tells him haughtily. 

He scoffs. “I highly doubt that, dearie.”

Belle laughs a little at that, nudging her foot against his under the table, her bare ankle warm against his.

“Fine,” he sighs, waving one hand dismissively and using the other to tap his fork against the side of her plate. “If you promise that you’ll eat your breakfast, you can call me whatever you wish. Deal?”

“Deal,” she agrees, taking an exaggeratedly large bite of her omelette.

Gold shakes his head, but he can’t even bring himself to feign annoyance, not with her leg still resting against his and her smiling at him from across the kitchen table.

*

He’s got to go into the station today -- unlike the day before, he’s actually scheduled to work a shift. So, after breakfast, he takes a shower and gets dressed before carrying his coat and tie out into the living room. 

Belle’s curled up on the couch, reading _The Wind in the Willows_ , chewing on her lip, the cracked teacup on the end table beside her, steam rising above the chipped rim. 

“You know,” he says, looping the tie around his neck, “you don’t have to keep using that cup. I’ve got plenty of others.”

“I like this one,” she shrugs, laying the book down on the couch beside her, and getting to her feet. “Here,” she says, gesturing at his collar. “Let me.”

He drops his hands, standing patiently as she reaches up and takes hold of either end of the tie. She bites her lip in concentration as she works, her fingers moving deftly at his throat. 

While she works, her hands occasionally brush the sensitive skin at the sides of the neck, her touch already achingly familiar. She smells endearingly like his soap. 

When she finishes, she smoothes her hand down over the tie, her fingers firm against his chest. He reaches up to run his hands over the silk knot, tightening it a little. It's a touch crooked, but other than that, it seems perfect.

“Not bad,” he says, impressed. “Not bad at all. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Belle shrugs and hands him his jacket. “My father, he used to like ties for work, a long time ago, before he...” she trails off, sounding so horribly sad that Gold wants nothing more than to take her in his arms, crush her to him, protect her from things long since past. 

But instead, he just says, “Do you see your father often, then?” 

Belle shakes her head and pushes an untidy strand of brown hair behind her ear. 

“No,” she tells him, and she looks suddenly much older than her years, eyes tired and sad. “Not for awhile. He was...he was cruel to me.” 

“Oh Belle,” he murmurs, not able to stop himself reaching up and cupping his hand to her cheek. 

She turns and kisses his palm, just a chaste brush of her lips against his skin.

“It was a long time ago,” she tells him, and Gold ghosts his thumb across her cheekbone, making a silent promise to himself that Moe French and anyone else who has ever harmed Belle will pay for what they’ve done to her, many times over.


	7. Belle (part 3)

Before he leaves for work, Gold sets her up with some more tea and her antibiotics, reminding her that she needs to take the next dose soon, and telling her that he'll be back with some lunch in a few hours. On his way out the door, he leans over her on the couch and presses a kiss to the crown of her head, his lips warm and soft against her skin.

Belle pretty much can’t remember the last time anyone cared as much about her as he seems to, taking care of her and worrying about whether or not she's safe and comfortable. Probably not since her mother died all those years ago, and her whole life seemed to just fall apart. 

She knows that she should probably just enjoy it while she's here, let him be kind to her and not question it too much. But there’s a part of her -- a much bigger part than she would like to admit, the part of her that’s spent the last year getting beat up and kicked around and passed from john to john -- that knows this isn’t going to work out like she wants it to.

Men like Gold don’t just magically fall in love with street whores like her, she reminds herself.

And yet, Belle can't stop thinking about the feel of his skin against hers, the look on his face when she touches him, how when she's with him everything seems brighter and more alive. So she tries to ignore all of the ways that this could go wrong, and instead takes another sip of her tea, settling into the couch and opening her book again, trying to forget about her life outside of this apartment.

*

By the time Belle finishes the book, only an hour has passed, and the morning is still stretching out in front of her, long and lonely. 

It's incredibly quiet in the apartment, the silence almost oppressive, and Belle turns on the television, out of desperation more than anything else. There’s nothing on but infomercials and morning talk shows, but at least it feels less strange in the apartment once there’s some noise

It’s sunny again outside, the storm passed, and she walks over to the window peering out wistfully. She can’t remember the last time she spent more than just a couple of hours inside, and she's already starting to get antsy, being cooped up like this. 

For one brief, insane moment she thinks of going back out there, of finding Ruby or Ashley or, hell, even Jefferson, someone from her real life, and getting back to what she’s used to. The thought is short-lived though; even if her cough isn’t as bad and her fever’s down, she shouldn’t be traipsing around in the cold, hanging out on street corners with a bunch of hookers and runaways just because she’s bored. 

So, she looks around her, deciding what she should do. 

Gold’s apartment is warm and homey, but it’s also kind of a mess. There are piles of laundry on pretty much every flat surface and their breakfast dishes are still sitting in the sink, dried egg crusting on them. 

So she decides to make herself useful and gets to work.

*

She starts with the dishes, washing first the breakfast plates and then her teacup, being particularly careful of the chipped rim, making sure not to break it. The last thing she wants to do is drop it and have it shatter into a million pieces.

After that, she moves on to the laundry. Her old clothes -- the ones she was wearing that night Gold picked her up -- are still laying in a dirty pile on the bathroom floor, and she’s been wearing the same t-shirt and sweatpants for almost 48 straight hours. 

There’s a hamper in the bathroom, and she drags it over to the small laundry room off the kitchen. She feels a little weird going through his laundry, but she figures he probably won’t mind. He mostly wears suits anyway, so she basically just ends up with a pile of dress shirts and boxers. 

While she washes the clothes she’s been wearing, she puts on one of the dozens of dress shirts Gold has hanging in his closet, figuring he won’t mind too much. Most of them are silk, brightly colored and patterned, but she finds a solid blue one tucked away in the back. It comes down almost to her knees, and she has to triple-roll the sleeves just to get them to stay up past her wrists, but it's soft and luxurious against her skin, and it smells like him, clean and vaguely herbal. 

She spends the day cleaning, dusting the bookshelves and scrubbing the counters and and vacuuming the floors. The dust makes her cough and sneeze, and the fumes from the cleaning solution makes her throat burn, but she still feels better somehow now that she's actually doing something besides just lying in bed all day, being sick and pathetic. 

*

By the time Gold comes home for lunch, the apartment is looking pretty good, all of the counters shining and the smell of bleach and lemon hanging heavy in the air. 

When he walks through the front door, two shopping bags held in his hands, Belle’s just finishing the last of the laundry. She’s still just wearing his shirt; her old clothes are still looking a little grungy even though she’s run them through the wash twice already, and she's started to like wearing his stuff, this feeling like he's with her even when he's gone. 

“Hi,” she says, setting the basket of laundry down on the couch.

“Hey,” he says. He’s got a bunch of shopping bags held in one hand, and he puts them down on the kitchen counter as he glances around the apartment, a look on his face like he’s not quite sure what’s going on. 

“I cleaned,” she tells him, tugging self-consciously on the hem of the shirt. “And borrowed a shirt. Is that okay?”

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says, looking around the apartment, like he doesn’t recognize it. And, okay, maybe she went a little crazy with the dusting and the polishing, but it just felt nice, doing housework like a normal person. 

She’s about to apologize to him for overstepping her bounds, when a coughing fit hits her, making her head throb and her chest ache. She’s been feeling a lot better, but the dust and the cleaning fumes are starting to get to her, she guesses.

Her nose is all red and runny from the cleaning fumes, and she probably looks completely revolting, but Gold’s over to her in a heartbeat, shaking a silk handkerchief out of his pocket. 

“Sorry,” she sniffles, trying to wipe her nose discreetly. Ugh, she’s getting his handkerchief all gross and snotty, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just rubs his hand gently against her back, touching her like he can’t help himself.

Once he’s apparently satisfied she’s okay, he gets her a glass of water and then grabs one of the bags from the counter, unloading a couple of containers of soup and some sandwiches. A lot of sandwiches, actually.

“Um,” she says, looking at all the food on the table. “Are we expecting anyone else or...?”

Gold laughs, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a crooked smile. “I just wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he tells her. “So I got one of everything.”

“Oh,” Belle says. It’s just...that's really nice of him. Especially since she would basically have eaten whatever he brought. Beggars not being choosers and all that. 

She ends up with turkey and ham, and he has the same, the two of them sitting across from each other and eating in companionable silence. All throughout the meal, he keeps glancing up at her with these soft smiles, like he’s really glad that she’s still there. 

Their ankles are touching under the table, and after a little while she starts to nudge her foot against his. He smiles when she does, nudging her back. Belle bites her lip and looks down at the table, smirking a little as she runs her foot up his calf, sliding her toes slowly up his leg. 

When she gets to his thigh, he closes his eyes, taking a deep slow breath, and reaching out to stroke her instep, his fingers brushing delicately across the curve of her foot. 

Belle gasps and curls her toes into his thigh, leaning closer to him, when he's suddenly pushing his chair back abruptly, standing up and grabbing the empty takeout containers. Belle just sits there for a moment, trying to get her bearings, figure out what she did wrong. 

When she starts to get up to help him clean, he waves for her to stay in her chair. “No, no,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

She’s about to protest again, when he grabs one of the other bags off the counter. “Here,” he says, handing it to her. His voice is soft and gentle, which makes her feel a little better. “These are for you.”

The bag is filled with clothes, a couple pairs of jeans and a few sweaters, all of them neatly folded and still with the tags on. For a minute, Belle just looks at them, feeling like she might cry. Everything is so clean and new and soft, and she doesn't know what to say, holding the bag and running her fingers over the soft blue fabric of one of the sweaters. 

“I wasn’t sure what size to get,” he tells her. “If you don’t like them, we can...”

But before he can finish, she’s launching herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Rum,” she says. 

He starts a little at the nickname, and Belle smiles as she presses her face against his neck, his stubble rasping against her cheek. Belle can’t resist kissing him, just a brush of her lips against his skin. He inhales sharply, his breath catching, so she does it again, this time running her tongue lightly up the side of his throat.

She’s still just wearing his shirt, and they’re pressed together all the way down to her hips. When she nips at the spot below his ear, she can feel him start to get hard. But when she moves to kiss him for real, he just puts his hands on her shoulders and pushes her away gently.

“Why don’t you try on the clothes while I clean this up?” he says, turning away from her, his hair falling in front of his face so she can’t see his eyes.

Even though he’s still not looking at her, Belle nods, trying not to feel hurt or confused or rejected.

*

In the bedroom, Belle sets the shopping bag on the bed, taking out the clothes slowly. There are two pairs of jeans, the fabric stiff and thick, no holes or rips or fraying spots on the knees, and two sweaters, one navy, one light blue. 

At the bottom of the bag, under the sweaters, she finds a toothbrush and a pair of canvas sneakers and socks and even some underwear, just regular cotton ones in plain white and pink, probably the least sexy ones she’s ever seen in her life. 

As she slides the jeans over her hips, she smiles to herself as she imagines him in the store, trying to find all of these things for her, deciding what she might like. 

The clothes are a little big, everything hanging off her too-thin frame, but they’re new and they’re clean, so Belle isn’t about to complain. 

When she heads back out to the living room, Gold is finishing up in the kitchen, putting the leftover sandwiches in the fridge. “Everything okay, then?” he asks, nodding at the clothes. 

“Perfect,” she tells him, and he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners in this way she’s starting to find almost unbelievably endearing. “Except,” she holds up her arm, showing him the tag that’s still hanging from the sleeve. She didn’t want to just yank it off, worried that she might rip the sweater. “Do you have any scissors?”

“Drawer next to the stove,” he says absently, pulling his suit jacket over his shoulders.

The drawer is a mess, full of plastic utensils and batteries and papers, and she rustles around looking for the scissors. There’s a folder inside, and when she moves it some of the papers spill out, and it takes her a second to recognize her father’s name, and -- what?

She takes out the folder, scissors forgotten, and flips it open. There’s a picture of her father paperclipped to the inside front cover, and his name is all over the papers -- arrest records, she realizes dully. She sees her name there in a few places as well, and Belle bites down hard on her lip, forcing herself not to cry.

“Why do you have this?” Belle says, her voice coming out strange, high and tight. It takes Gold a moment to realize what she’s got in her hands, and when he does, his face closes off, his expression guarded.

“Belle,” he says, but doesn’t say anything else.

“What is this?” she asks, even though she’s pretty sure she knows the answer.

“Belle, please. You’re...”

Belle cuts him off, not interested in whatever excuses he’s got lined up. “No, Rum, just tell me.” 

She tosses the file on the table, and another set of papers slides out of the folder. When she sees Gaston’s name, she gets a sick feeling in her stomach. It’s just -- how the hell does he know about Gaston? 

“Why do you have this?” she says again.

He just looks at her steadily, not answering her question, his expression dark and hard. 

“Tell me,” she finally shouts, her voice sounding shaky and pathetic.

She expects for him to yell back at her, but instead his voice is low and dangerously quiet. “He hurt you, Belle.” 

“He’s my father!” she yells, not sure why she’s even bothering to get so worked up over this, after all the horrible things her father's done to her, proof of half of them sitting on the table in front of her.

Gold smirks, this twist of his mouth like he thinks she’s an idiot, just some dumb pathetic kid who doesn’t know anything. “And yet I seem to care more for you then he does.” 

Belle flinches, swallowing hard and looking away from him. “You don’t know anything about me,” she says, quiet and angry. “And you can’t just buy me with a sandwich and a couple of new shirts. I’m not that cheap.”

He scoffs, and Belle feels her face flush hot with shame. The tags are still on the clothes, dangling pathetically off the sleeve of her sweater. She wants to pull it off of her, show her she doesn’t need him or his stupid charity, but she’s not wearing anything underneath and so she’s stuck.

“I’m not trying to buy you, dearie,” he says, his voice low and cold. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection!”

“Is that right?” he asks, reaching out and taking hold of her arm. He grabs right where the bruises are, tightening his fingers until she flinches, whimpering pathetically before she can stop herself. 

He lets go of her immediately, a stricken look on his face. “Belle,” he says, sounding legitimately horrified. “I’m sorry, Belle.”

She just pushes past him, tears pricking her eyes as she heads for the door. 

“Belle, I’m sorry,” he says again, desperate. "I am."

But she doesn’t turn around, just wrenches the door open and heads out into the hallway, not wanting to hear anything else from him. She knew this wasn't going to last, knew this was too good to actually happen to her.

She just storms out, not even knowing where she’s going, just going. Fuck him. He doesn’t know anything about her. 

Belle's not sure why she expects for him to follow her, but she does, and she stands outside of the building for a few minutes, trying to calm down. She tells herself she's not waiting for him, but she's got no other reason to stand here like this. What she really wants is to go back inside, to tell Gold he can investigate her father, Gaston, whoever he wants, while she curls up in his bed with a book and her chipped cup of tea, and pretend like that’s her life. 

But he doesn't come chasing after her, and the air is frigid, making her chest ache as she stands alone on the sidewalk. Her feet are already going numb inside the thin sneakers, so she starts walking, trying to keep warm.

She starts shivering after about a block -- even though the clothes are new, they’re not particularly warm -- but she just wraps her arms around herself and keeps walking, her head down, no idea at all of where she’s going.


	8. Gold (part 4)

It takes Gold a few minutes before he comes to his senses and realizes what a bastard he’s being.

He’s not sure what he’s trying to prove exactly by letting Belle go back out there and possibly freeze to death. That he's protecting her? That he's better than her asshole father? Christ, he's an idiot.

On his way out the door, he grabs his overcoat and scarf, not because he needs them for the short walk to his car, but just. Belle's going to need something for the cold.

The hallway outside his apartment is empty and, even though Gold didn’t actually expect to find her there, a feeling a panic still settles low in his gut, sick and familiar. But then, when she’s not in the stairwell either, or even on the sidewalk outside, his stomach drops and a cold spike of fear runs through him. It’s like Bae all over again.

He clutches his coat and the scarf to him as he looks for her, glancing up and down the street. He even calls her name, not able to keep the panic out of his voice, but she’s nowhere, she’s gone. After just a couple of minutes, he gets in his car, figuring he can cover a lot more ground that way. 

At first, he just circles the block. She’s only been gone for a few minutes, so she can’t have gotten far. 

The jacket and scarf are on the seat next to him, but he wishes he’d remembered to bring her pills. She’s going to need to take her next dose soon, especially now that she’s been out in the cold, damp air. 

Once he circles the block a dozen or so times, he widens his parameter, making ever-wider sweeps of the area. He keeps the sirens and the lights off, just in case. He doesn’t want to spook her. 

While he searches for Belle, he tries not to think about Bae, but he can’t seem to stop. He’s never been able to stop, not in the decade his boy has been gone, so he’s not sure why he suddenly thinks he’ll be able to now, simply because he’s managed to once again drive away the one person in his sorry, lonely life that he actually cares about. 

*

Twenty minutes later, he still hasn’t found her. He doesn’t think she’d go back out to the town line, not like this, not when she’s still as sick as she is. But then again, he’s got no other idea about where she might be. 

He scrubs his hands across his face and then leans his forehead against the steering wheel, pressing hard enough against it that his head starts to ache. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

He doesn’t think about the things he said to her, the way he grabbed her arm, thin and frail so very breakable beneath his hand. All he thinks about it finding her and bringing her home, filling her chipped cup with tea and tucking her into his bed.

*

The drive out to the town line takes about twice as long as it normally does. Gold drives incredibly slowly, his heart stuttering hopefully whenever he sees a flash of long dark hair, a glimpse of blue sweater.

The corner by the library is pretty much deserted, just a couple of girls standing idly at the curb. Gold keeps his distance, parking far enough away so that he can see them, but not so close that they’ll notice him.

He waits there like that for what feels like forever, watching as more girls show up, shivering with the cold, watching as cars stop at the corner, men with shifty expressions, their shoulders hunched inside their jackets, get out and pull girls behind them into backseats and down alleyways.

By the time the sun has started to set, but there's still no sign of Belle. When Gold's cellphone rings, it makes him jump, and he realizes with a start that was supposed to be back at work almost three hours ago. Shit.

It’s the Sheriff of course, calling to tell him he needs to get back to the station, that there’s some woman there who needs to speak with him.

“Can’t you get someone else to deal with her,” he says distractedly. There’s a girl walking down the road near the line. She’s wearing blue and her hair is dark and curly, but there’s something off about the way that she walks, sort of stiff and awkward, and Gold realizes she’s just some street kid, not anyone important. Not Belle. “I’m on a case.”

“Sorry, Gold,” Emma says, not actually sounding all that sorry. “The girl says she’ll only talk to you.”

He feels a surge of hope so intense his chest actually hurts. “What does she look like?” he asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“The girl, Sheriff Swan,” he snaps, impatient. “What does she look like?”

“Um,” Emma says. “She’s young, completely underdressed for the weather, tall, dyed hair, wearing a lot of red. Why? You know her?”

Gold swallows down the feeling of disappointment and rubs a hand across his forehead. Wherever Belle is, she doesn’t appear to be here. “No,” he says, but he turns the car around, heading back downtown. “I don’t believe that I do.” 

*

It turns out he does know the girl. 

She’s sitting at the chair next to his desk when he walks into the station, chatting with Sheriff Swan, and Gold sighs, already exhausted. The girl is one of Belle’s friends, one of the ones who’s always darting off down alleyways when he pulls up in his cruiser. Ruby, he thinks her name is.

“May I help you?” he asks. 

“I need to report a missing person,” she says. She’s got long brown hair shot through with bright, candy-apple red streaks and she’s wearing even less clothes than Belle was the other day -- just a halter top and a ragged red mini skirt. Jesus Christ, these girls. It’s a wonder every single one of them doesn’t freeze to fucking death out there.

Gold sighs. “Missing Persons is on the second floor, dearie,” he tells her. “This is Vice. So, unless you’d like to turn yourself in --”

“It’s Belle,” she says, cutting him off with a glare. “Belle’s gone.”

“Belle French?” Emma asks. From the corner of his eye, Gold sees her glance curiously at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on Ruby, carefully not looking at the sheriff.

Ruby nods. “She just disappeared. No one knows where she is.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the Sheriff says. And she does look concerned, which Gold suddenly realizes isn’t necessarily a good thing. “But Detective Gold’s right; you need to go to Missing Persons with this.”

Gold scrubs a hand across his face. The last thing he needs is Swan to discover is that the only reason Belle’s street rat friends haven’t heard from her in two days is because she’s been living -- and sleeping -- with one of Storybrooke’s finest. And while Ruby is telling him nothing he doesn’t already know, Gold realizes that this is an opportunity -- maybe the only opportunity he’s going to get -- to find out more about where Belle might have gone. 

“Sheriff Swan,” he says, standing up and pulling her aside until they’re out of earshot from Ruby. “I have this under control. Miss French is actually one of my C.I.s, so it’s probably best if I just handle this myself. You understand, don’t you?” 

Swan narrows her eyes at him, but it’s hard to argue with the confidential informant thing, so she just warns him to watch himself and then heads over to her office across the room.

“Don’t you dare pretend like you don’t care that Belle’s gone,” Ruby hisses once he gets back to his desk. She’s got a ugly green bruise under her left eye and a busted lip.

“And what exactly do you mean by that, dearie?” 

“You’re always bringing her food and, like, stopping by to chat with her or whatever,” Ruby says, leaning in close to him and talking low enough so that only Gold can hear her. “It’s weird and it’s creepy, but Belle doesn’t seem to mind. But now she’s gone, just vanished into thin air, and I don’t know where else to go.”

Gold pinches the bridge of his nose, and grabs a pen and a pad of paper out of his desk. Might as well make this look somewhat official. “Alright then,” he says. “When was the last time you saw Miss French?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest and settling back into the chair. “A couple of days ago, maybe?”

“A couple of days ago, _maybe,_ ” he repeats, raking a hand through his hair. “Do you think you could be more specific?”

“Um,” Ruby squints up at the ceiling, twirling a strand of unnaturally red hair between her fingers. “The morning of the blizzard, I guess.” 

“And you haven’t seen her since then?” 

“Would I be here asking you for help if I had?” she snaps.

Gold grits his teeth, reminding himself that this girl may be able to help him find Belle. When he speaks again, his voice is cool and level, professional. “Does she have any family?”

Ruby doesn't say anything for a minute, just glares at him like he's the one who told her to come down here and waste his time. Finally: “She’s got a father,” she mumbles.

“And might she be with him?” 

“No way,” Ruby shakes her head. “She wouldn’t go to her father.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, watching Ruby carefully, looking for any signs that she might be lying to him. 

“Belle would _never_ go to him,” Ruby says adamantly. “Not after what he did to her.”

“And what exactly might that be?” he asks.

Ruby looks away from him, her expression guarded. “Just trust me, okay? She didn’t go to her father.”

“So then tell me: where might she have gone?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, getting to her feet. Apparently, she’s reached her limit for chatting with cops for the day. “Belle doesn’t ever really go anywhere. She’s always just kind of around.”

“Well then how do you suggest I find her?”

“You’re a detective, right?” she says, pulling on a grungy, too-small red coat. “Do some detecting or something.”

*

Gold ends up offering to drive her back out to the town line, mostly because it’s freezing outside and, despite the fact that she’s been nothing but a pain in his ass, he doesn’t much care for the idea that she’ll either have to walk five miles to get back out there or waste her hard-earned blowjob money on bus fare.

She refuses to sit in the front with him, and she spends most of the drive with her arms crossed over her chest, staring sullenly out the back windows. 

“So what’s your deal with Belle, anyway?” she finally asks. 

“My deal?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, are you fucking her or something?”

Jesus Christ. He liked it better when she was sulking. “And what on earth would make you say that?”

She shrugs and kicks at the back of the seat. “Like I said earlier. You’re always bringing her stuff, stopping by the corner, and...I don’t know. You’ve gotta be getting something out of it?”

“I don’t need to get anything out of it, dearie,” he tells her, keeping his voice flat and level. It’s not like she knows anything about his relationship with Belle, and, besides, it’s nothing at all like she’s implying.

She scoffs and shakes her head, smirking at him in the rearview mirror. “Right.”

Gold just grips the steering wheel tighter, not saying anything as he drives her out to the line. He keeps an eye on her in the mirror, watching as she slumps against the seat. The bruise on her face looks bad in the fading light, ugly and green, and she keeps biting at her lip where it’s cut.

Ruby makes him stop a few blocks from the town line and let her out where none of the other girls will see her. Gold turns off the car and reaches into his pocket to get his wallet, wanting to give her his card in case she hears from Belle. When Ruby sees the wallet, her eyes get bright, a hungry, desperate look on her face.

“Hey,” she says, leaning forward to touch his shoulder over the back of the seat. When he glances back at her, she smiles and slides her tongue over her lower lip. “I’ve got a few minutes if there’s anything you want.”

Gold blinks. “And how much would that run me, dear?”

She licks her lip again. It’s started to bleed, a thin smear of blood darkening her lipstick. “Twenty bucks.”

Christ. She and Belle are out here selling themselves for twenty dollars? Gold swallows, feeling sick again.

She squeezes his shoulder and he jerks away from her, taking out his card and two twenties, passing them to her, careful not to touch her any more than he has to.

“Just let me know if you see Belle,” he says tiredly.

She snatches the money out of his hand, like she doesn’t trust him not to yank it back. She wrenches the door open, letting in a gust of cold air. It’s starting to snow again, just flurries, but ground is still icy and wet from the storms. 

“Hey,” she says, the money and his card clenched tight in her hand. She glances behind her like she’s worried someone’s watching, but there’s no one there, the streets deserted this far outside of town. “You might want to talk to her dad. He’s an asshole, but he might be able to tell you something.”

“You know where I can find him?” 

Ruby shrugs. “He used to have a flower shop not too far from here,” she says. “I’d probably check there first.”

Before Gold can thank her, she’s already out of his car, hurrying across the street and hugging her threadbare coat snug against her body, disappearing into the night.

*

Moe French lives on a trash-strewn street in a cramped little apartment above his abandoned flower shop. 

The stairwell smells rank, like piss and stale sweat, and there are piles of garbage heaped along the hallway. Gold walks slowly up the stairs, taking in everything, getting angrier and angrier with each step he takes. The thought of Belle living here makes Gold want to destroy something. 

Gold pounds on the door for a solid minute before Moe answers. He’s a big man, pasty and soft, with pale, watery eyes. “Yes?”

“Moe French?” Gold says, flashing his badge. “May I have a word?” 

French gets a guarded look on his face, his eyes sharpening. “What do you want? I haven’t done anything. You’ve got no right to – “

“Relax, Mr. French,” he says, stretching his mouth into what probably only barely looks like a smile. “I’m looking for your daughter.” 

“Belle?” he asks blearily. He stinks of cheap liquor, and Gold can’t fathom how such a hulking oaf of a man managed to produce someone as lovely as Belle.

“Yes,” Gold says, reaching out and putting his palm flat against the door. He pushes it firmly, swinging it open onto a filthy little apartment. “Have you seen her recently?”

“No,” he says belligerently, moving like he’s trying to block Gold from coming inside. Gold just brushes past him and Moe slumps weakly against the wall. 

Inside the apartment, there are empty bottles littering almost every flat surface, and the furniture is stained and rickety. 

“So,” French slurs. “What’s the little bitch done now?” 

Gold shoots a hand out, shoving French roughly on the shoulder, pinning him against the wall. “I’d watch what you say, dearie,” he hisses, smiling when Moe flinches. “Now, tell me, Mr. French: when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

“Months ago,” French says shakily. Gold lets him go, and French exhales heavily before grabbing a half-empty glass of whiskey off the table and taking a long belt of it. “Walked out of here without a goddamn word.”

“And do you have any idea where she might be now?”

“Not a clue,” Moe says, but he’s not looking at Gold, his eyes shifting to a spot just beside him. Gold has a feeling that Moe French knows exactly where his daughter spends most of her days.

“Well, if she stops by, please have her contact me,” he says, struggling to keep his voice level. It wouldn’t do to frighten the man too terribly, not when he provides a possible means to finding Belle. 

Gold hands Mr. French one his cards, and then heads towards the door. He wants to get out of there as quickly as he can, the stench of the place seeming to stick to his suit. If he has anything to say about it, Belle will never step foot in this hellhole again. He’s almost to the door when Moe calls out to him.

"Detective Gold," he says. When Gold turns around, Moe’s smirking at him over the rim of his glass. “If you find the little whore, tell her I’m looking for her.”

Gold's across the room in a flash and he doesn’t think, just curls his hand into a fist and drives it into Moe French’s face over and over and over, hitting him until he feels something break.


	9. Belle (part 4)

After she leaves Gold’s apartment, Belle just walks around for awhile, her head down against the cold, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to not freeze to death. 

She can’t seem to stop crying, her breath coming in little sobs. She swipes angrily at her cheeks, trying to brush away the tears before they freeze on her face.

It’s so ridiculous, how upset she is. She knew it wasn’t going to last, that Gold would turn out to be just like everyone else, lying and secretive. But somehow she’s still surprised, this horrible feeling of disappointment just coursing through her body.

It’s just, things with her father, with Gaston are none of his business. And, no matter what he said, she doesn’t need his protection; she’s been just fine on her own for years.

Besides, all of this is just going to make things harder when she finally does go back. If Gaston finds out that there are cops on him because of her....well, she doesn’t want to even think about that.

She can’t feel her feet anymore, and she has no idea where she’s going. It’s strange how cold she is, like she forgot what it was like out there in the two days she’s been gone. Gold’s apartment is just so warm, all cozy and heated, and she got used to it without even meaning to. 

The stupid tag is still hanging off her sleeves and she rips at it with her numb fingers, yanking at it until it snaps, leaving a little tear in the sweater. Ugh, of course. 

She wishes she was wearing her regular clothes, the ones still sitting in a laundry basket on Gold’s couch. She still had a couple of dollars tucked away in the front pocket of her jeans, saved up in case she needed it. But now she doesn’t even have that.

God, she almost can’t believe how fast everything fell apart, one second she’s all happy and excited and feeling loved and cared about, and the next she’s out on the streets again.

The air is getting colder, making her chest burn every time she breathes. When a coughing fit hits her, she has to actually stop walking it’s so bad, and she ends up just stooped over on the sidewalk, her body curled in on itself. 

Once she catches her breath, she forces herself to start walking again, this time paying more attention to where she is, trying to get her bearings. 

Wherever she is, it’s not the side of town she’s used to, which is maybe not the worst thing in the world. The truth is, she doesn’t want to go back to the town line, doesn’t want to risk running into Gaston or even any of the other girls. 

It’s just...Belle feels like she can’t go back there right now. Even if was just for a little while, she felt like a normal person, one who didn’t have to suck cocks in a blizzard for twenty bucks.

And even though she's practically freezing to death on the streets, she can’t seem to shake that feeling. Maybe it’s the clothes. Maybe it’s how she can’t stop thinking about how Gold looks at her sometimes, like she matters, like she’s a real person and not just a whore. She just -- she doesn’t know. 

All she knows is that she’s cold and her chest hurts and she’s got no idea where she’s going.

*

Somehow, she ends up over on the boys’ side of town, the salty smell of the ocean suddenly all around her. It’s comforting, that she knows where she is, even if it’s even colder out by the water, the wind whipping right through her thin sweater, chilling her down to the bone. She can’t seem to stop coughing, and she has to stop every few minutes just to catch her breath. 

It’s still early, so the docks are mostly empty, just a couple of boys she doesn’t recognize loitering around. Most of the guys usually don’t show up until at least sundown when the traffic starts to pick up a little.

There’s a diner just down the street, and she ducks inside, hoping she’s not going to get kicked out before she can warm up a little. 

But she must look at least somewhat presentable because the waitress doesn’t kick her out, just takes her order for a cup of coffee without a second look.

It’s warm in the diner, which is a relief, but she still can’t stop coughing, these horrible racking heaves that overtake her whole body. Holding the coffee cup helps a little, her hands wrapped close around the cheap white ceramic, trying to soak up all the heat. After just a few minutes, she starts to get some feeling back into her fingers, the warmth from the coffee leeching into her skin.

She’s nursing her second cup when the bell over the door jangles and Jefferson walks in, his eyes widening in surprise when he sees her. He must have gotten an early start today, the knees of his jeans all muddy and wet from the slush. 

“You know Gaston’s looking for you, right?” he says by way of greeting, sliding into the seat across from her and tossing his ever-present hat onto the table. 

Belle nods, the coffee suddenly feeling like sludge in her throat. She coughs, leaning away from the table and curling in on herself while she tries to stop. 

“Well, that sounds good,” Jefferson says, giving her a dubious look, before craning his neck to look for the waitress. “Garçon,” he calls, snapping his fingers. Belle rolls her eyes and hopes he doesn’t get them kicked out; she’s still not sure what she’s going to do once she leaves here.

When the waitress finally comes over, she looks annoyed, sighing as she writes down his order for a basket of fries. 

“So where the hell have you been?” he asks once the waitress leaves, kicking up his feet on the seat next to her, getting muddy slush on her new jeans. “Gaston is fucking pissed.”

Belle winces, rubbing at her arm through her sleeve. The bruises are still a little tender, especially in the spots where Gold grabbed her. “He’s been over here looking for me?” she asks, swallowing down a sick feeling. “On this side of town?”

“I guess he doesn’t like it when his things go missing,” he says.

“I’m not one of his _things_ ,” she spits. God, why the hell does everyone think they own her? 

“Whatever,” he shrugs, swiping her coffee and taking a long gulp. “So where’ve you been, anyway?”

Now it’s her turn to shrug, not wanting to answer. Luckily, she’s saved by the waitress dropping of the fries. Jefferson pours ketchup all over them until they’re a soggy mess. 

“Okay then,” he says around a mouthful of food. “At least tell me this: what’s with the outfit?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, looking down at her sweater, her brand new jeans. It’s not sexy or anything, but it’s clean and kind of a nice color, so she’s not sure what he’s talking about. 

“You look like someone’s mom,” he laughs, leaning over the table to get a better look at her. “Man, if Gaston could see you in this he’d probably leave you alone for a while.”

“Shut up,” she says, kicking at him under the table. 

“Where did you even get those?”

Belle smiles before she can stop herself, the corner of her mouth quirking up just thinking about Rum. Even though she’s still mad at him, she just...it was really nice of him, buying her new clothes, trying to make sure she was taken care of. Across from her, Jefferson grins.

“Why, Belle French,” he crows. “Do you have a beau?”

“No,” she protests weakly. Oh god, she really doesn’t want to talk about this with him. Or anyone, really.

“Or maybe a john with a kink for hot brunettes wearing incredibly dorky clothes?” 

Belle just looks down at the table, staring into her coffee. 

Jefferson narrows his eyes. “Or perhaps the beau _is_ the john?”

Belle flushes, picking at the peeling formica. 

“Oh man,” Jefferson says, laughing a little, like this is the most hilarious thing he can imagine. “Come on, Belle. Really? A john? Did Ruby teach you nothing?” He shakes his head. “Never fall in love with johns.”

“He’s not a john,” she says, biting her lip to keep from saying anything else. She likes Jefferson and all, but it’s not like he’s got any loyalty to her and, well. It probably wouldn’t be good for Gold if anyone found out that he’s been letting her live with him. Probably that breaks all kinds of police codes or whatever.

“Right,” Jefferson smirks, giving her a knowing wink. Ugh, she forgot what an asshole he could be. 

She suddenly feels like she might start crying again, so she just takes a long swig of her coffee. It’s cold and gross, the sugar turned all sludgy, but it at least gives her something to focus on.

“Fine, fine,” he sighs, licking ketchup off his fingers. “I guess you don’t want to talk about this.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” she says, relieved. She steals a fry from his plate, and he slaps ineffectually at her hand. Belle smirks. “So, what else is going on?”

“Nothing much,” he says. “Gaston’s been on the warpath since you’ve been gone, Killian got the shit kicked out of him last week by some john he tried to rip off. You know,” he shrugs. “The usual.”

“Hmmm,” Belle says. It looks like it’s already starting to get dark outside, and Belle knows she’s going to have to decide what to do soon. “You don't know of anywhere around here that I could stay, do you? Somewhere warm?”

Jefferson scoffs. “Not with Gaston looking for you.”

“Right,” Belle says, dejected.

“Sorry, kid. I’d invite you to ply your trade with me down at the docks, but,” he shrugs dramatically. “I doubt my clientele is interested in anything you have to offer.”

Belle nods, chewing on her lip. The thing is, she’s going to need to go somewhere, either somewhere around here or back out to the town line or back to Detective Gold’s place. It’s not much of a choice.

“Well, break time’s over,” Jefferson pulls out a couple of crumpled dollars from his pocket, dropping them on the table and sliding out of the booth. It’s enough to cover his fries and her coffee, but just barely. “Back to the office.”

Belle gets up when he does, following him out the door. He heads across the street, hands tucked in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind. The sun is starting to set and the air is cold and biting, and right away she wishes she was back inside. It’s a pretty long walk back to Gold’s apartment.

“Hey,” she calls. Jefferson turns, walking backwards as he looks at her. “Don’t say anything to Gaston or anyone, okay?”

Jefferson rolls his eyes, but tips his hat in assent, and then he turns around again, sauntering over to where a couple of the other boys are already standing, leaning against the warehouses, their hips cocked invitingly towards the men walking by.

*

Belle spends the long, cold walk back to the apartment thinking about what she’s going to say when she sees Gold again. It’s making her feel kind of sick and miserable, but at least it helps keep her mind off the cold. 

She’s not sure if she’ll be able to bring herself to apologize. Probably, she should just say whatever he wants to hear, beg for forgiveness if that’s what he asks. It’s not like she’s in any kind of position to negotiate. Either he takes her back or she freezes to death out here on the street. She’s definitely not going back out to the line, not now that she knows Gaston is looking for her. 

The air seems to be getting colder with every step she takes, and before long she’s having trouble catching her breath. It feels like her chest is on fire, this horrible pressure that she can’t seem to get past, but she just keeps going, telling herself that she’ll be there soon and she’ll be able to go inside where it’s warm. 

But when she finally gets there, his place is dark and locked up tight, and no matter how many times she knocks or pulls on the door handle, it stays that way. She can’t even get in the building. 

She’s not sure what she expected. It was pretty obvious when he didn’t come after he that he wasn’t horribly destroyed at the idea of her leaving. So she doesn’t know why she thought he’d be waiting for her to come home. Not that this is home for her or anything, just. As dumb as it is, she did think he’d at least wait for her, that he’d be here when she got back.

She needs to find someplace else to go, but she’s just so tired and cold and her body has started to shake, her teeth chattering. Even though she should probably find somewhere warmer, Belle doesn’t have the energy to do anything other than huddle down on the stoop, tucking her hands inside her sleeves and pulling her knees up to her chest. 

She presses her back against the building and tucks her head down, pressing her forehead into her knees, trying to conserve as much body heat as she can.

*

The next thing Belle knows, someone’s touching her, warm hands pressing against her skin, shaking her gently on the shoulder. She feels too tired and weak to even move, so she doesn’t, just stays where she is, curled in on herself, just opening her eyes enough to see who it is.

When she sees that it’s Rum she almost cries, but she can’t even manage to get enough breath to do that, coughing instead, so hard that it hurts, like someone’s punched in her in the chest.

“Fuck,” he says sounding frantic. “Christ.” He keeps touching her face, brushing her hair back from her forehead, cupping her cheek. “Jesus, Belle, you’re freezing.”

“‘M sorry,” she mumbles, trying not to burst into tears. She presses into him weakly, trying to get as close to him as she can. He’s so warm. 

He pulls her closer to him, wrapping one arm around her back and sliding another under her knees. He flinches when he lifts her, and Belle can see there’s something wrong with his hand, it’s all red and bruised, the skin on his knuckles cut and bleeding. 

“Sorry,” she says again, so quiet she’s not even sure he hears her. His hand looks really painful, but he holds onto her tightly, not letting her go.

“Hey, no, no, you’re fine, sweetheart,” he says, his voice kind of shaky as he lifts her up. “You’re okay.”

Belle holds onto his jacket as he lifts her up, her hand gripping the lapel of his coat as strongly as she can. She expects for him to bring her upstairs, but then he’s loading her in his car, tucking a heavy black overcoat around her. If she had any energy left she’d protest, tell him she doesn’t want to go anywhere but back to his place, but it’s so warm in the car and he’s already starting to drive, so she just closes her eyes and leans against the door, too cold and tired to worry about where they’re going.


	10. Gold (part 5)

Gold drives with his good hand on the steering wheel and the other holding loosely onto Belle’s hand. Her skin is cold and clammy, and she’s shivering, even worse than she was that first night when he picked her up outside the library. He knows he needs to keep his eyes on the road, but he can't stop looking over at her, reassuring himself that she's really there. 

His hand -- the one holding Belle’s -- is a mess, bruised and swollen and mostly likely broken from his run-in with her father. Just the slight pressure of her hand against his is agonizing, but he’s not willing to let her go, not again.

She needs a hospital, that much is clear. She seems to be sliding in and out of consciousness and her breathing sounds terrible, a loud, wet rattling in her chest. 

There’s a hospital not far from his place, but Gold heads past that, out of town. He can’t show up at the hospital here with Belle, not where people know him, not now that he knows people are looking for Belle.

*

The drive to the hospital is long and tense. More than once Gold thinks about just turning around and bringing Belle back to Storybrooke, but he’s not sure he’d be able to force Dr. Whale to keep his mouth shut if anyone came asking about him or Belle. So he just keeps driving, going as fast as he dares on the icy road, his hand holding onto Belle’s the entire time. 

She hasn’t moved in a while, but he can still hear her breathing, shallow and rough, and her skin is at least starting to warm up a little from the heat in the car. 

When he finally pulls into the emergency room parking lot, Belle starts to wake up. He feels a brief surge of happiness, but then she’s coughing, a horrible hacking sound, and when she looks at him, there’s blood on her lips and Gold’s heart feels like it just stops. 

He half-carries her into the hospital, cradling her to him, trying not to pull her too fast as she shuffles beside him. 

She's not coughing for the moment, but there’s still a spot of blood on the corner of her mouth, bright red against the bluish white of her skin.

*

Belle passes out right as they get inside the emergency room, collapsing against him, and suddenly there are nurses surrounding them, loading Belle onto a gurney and wheeling her behind a set of heavy double doors. 

Gold tries to follow them, but a nurse steps in front of him, holding up her hands and telling him that only family can come back. 

“Sir,” she says firmly as she blocks the door. “Are you family?”

“Yes,” Gold says without thinking about it. “Yes, she’s -- she’s my wife.”

And then, suddenly, unbelievably, they’re just letting him through the doors, and he stands back and watches as they hook Belle up to an IV, doctors and nurses buzzing around her. 

He feels completely helpless, watching them work on Belle. She’s still not moving, but he can see her chest rise and fall as she struggles to breathe. 

Jesus Christ, he can’t believe he let her leave like that. And that she was just walking around for hours in the fucking snow while he did...what? Chatted with her little hooker friend? Beat up her father? He left the man lying on the floor of his filthy apartment, begging for Gold to stop, his face bruised and bloody. If he ever sees Moe French again, he decides, watching as one of the nurses puts an oxygen tube in Belle’s nose, he’s going to kill the bastard. 

He’s just standing there, plotting French’s murder when a nurse comes up to him with a clipboard.

“Sir?” she says, and she has to say it a few times before he turns and focuses on her. She hands him the clipboard which, when he looks at it, he realizes is stacked with admissions forms. “Would you mind filling these out for me?”

Shit. He’s got no idea what he’s going to write on the forms, but he takes them from her anyway, wincing when she puts them in his injured hand.

“You should have someone look at that,” she tells him, nodding at his hand. “It looks like it might be broken.”

“It’s fine,” Gold says vaguely, trying to keep an eye on what’s happening with Belle. 

“Why don’t you come with me, while they work on your wife,” she says in a gentle voice, taking hold of his shoulder and trying to lead him away.

“I said it’s fine,” he snaps, jerking away from her so roughly that she stumbles back into the wall. She’s giving him kind of a horrified look, enough so that he’s worried she might seek out security. Gold takes a deep breath and forces himself to apologize to the woman. “Please, I’m sorry. Just...I just need to make sure my wife is all right. Please.”

She nods, still looking rather wary, but she leaves him alone, disappearing back behind the admissions desk, so he doesn’t much care.

*

They put Belle in a room by herself, and Gold sits in the chair next to her bed, holding her hand in his. Her skin looks translucent, thin and waxy under the fluorescent lights. She still hasn’t woken up.

He’s still sitting there when a nurse comes in a while later, reminding him about the admissions forms. Filling out paperwork is about the last thing on his mind, but Gold does it just so that he has something to do besides worry over Belle.

He skips the spot where he's supposed to write her name for now, instead putting down the date of birth that he learned from the police records and listing the name of the antibiotic Whale prescribed for her in the place where it asks for what medications she's currently on. He's got no idea about her allergies or any other past medical history, so he just skips that. He gives a fake social security number and checks the box labeled _no insurance._ He'll pay fucking cash if he needs to, as long as it doesn't draw any undue attention to him or Belle. After just a moment's hesitation, he moves back up to the place for her name, printing _Belle Gold_ in neat, clear letters. 

The doctor comes in right as he’s finishing up. “Sir?”

“Yes,” Gold says, not looking away from Belle, watching her like he can will her to wake up and be all right. 

“Sir, I’m Dr. Hopper.” He’s got a quiet, soothing voice, one that immediately irritates Gold. 

“Is she going to be okay?” Gold asks, finally looking away from Belle, to hand the doctor the clipboard of paperwork. The doctor watches him carefully, but Gold sees his eyes flicker over to Belle's arms for just a moment. The bruises are still visible, standing out starkly against the paper-white of her skin. 

“She should be,” Dr. Hopper says, and Gold closes his eyes in relief. “She’s got pneumonia, which I suspect you already know. But she has some other...injuries that are concerning.” He glances down at the clipboard and then at Gold’s hand, which looks like he spent the evening beating on someone. Which he did of course, but it certainly wasn’t Belle. 

Gold wants ask about the other injuries -- if it’s just the bruises, or if there’s something else, something worse. Christ, he’s got no idea where she spent the day, what might have happened to her. Gold starts to feel sick, thinking about what might have happened to her out there, but then Belle's eyes flicker open, that bright startling blue looking strangely out of place in the sickly pale of her face. 

“Rum?” she says, sounding sick and confused and very, very young. She looks so fragile lying there that he’s almost afraid to touch her. 

“Hey,” he says, more relieved than he can ever remembering being.

“Hi,” she says, her voice raspy and rough. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, reaching up with his good hand to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. She leans her cheek against his palm, and her skin is warm again, pink and alive.

“Better,” she tells him. She looks very small in the bed, young and vulnerable in a too-large yellow hospital gown. “I came back,” she says, so quiet he barely hears her.

“You did,” he confirms, smiling at her.

“You were gone,” she says. She blinks and a tear snakes it way down her cheek. She sounds lost and sad that his chest aches.

“I was looking for you,” he tells her, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone over and over again. “I tried to find you. To bring you home.”

Behind them, the doctor clears his throat pointedly and steps up next to the bed. “Mrs. Gold?” Hopper says, and Belle’s eyes get wide as she looks at Gold.

He raises his eyebrows and gives her a little shrug, hoping that she’ll go with it for now.

“Y-yes?” she says, looking over at the doctor. 

“Do you mind if we speak in private for a moment?”

Gold just keeps his eyes on Belle, willing her to go along with it. She looks confused, but she gives him a quick nod before looking over at Dr. Hopper.

“A-actually, I think I’d like a minute alone with my...husband,” she says, stumbling a little over the words. 

The doctor looks like he’s going to protest, but Gold just turns his back to him, dismissing him as he focuses on Belle.

“Mrs. Gold?” Belle says, once the doctor’s gone.

He shrugs and strokes his thumb across her cheekbone. “They’d only let me in to see you if we were family,” he tells her.

Belle blinks. “And why does the doctor want to talk to me alone?”

“I suspect it has something to do with these,” he says, ghosting his fingers over the bruises on her arms.

“Oh,” Belle says, looking down and chewing on her lower lip. “What should I tell him?”

Gold shrugs. “Nothing. It’s none of his business, really.”

“He’s a doctor,” Belle points out, as if this is particularly relevant.

“And he’s treating your illness,” he tells her. “The bruises have nothing to do with that.”

“Rum,” she says. 

“Tell him anything you like, Belle,” he sighs. He's more tired than he can ever remember being, and he just wishes for things not to be so absurdly _difficult_ all the time. “Tell him you bruise easily. Tell him you’ve taken up boxing in your spare time and your sparring partner is rough. Tell him the truth,” he says, frustrated. “Whatever that may be.”

Belle flushes, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. Jesus Christ, what the hell is wrong with him? 

“Hey,” he says, desperately. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m just worried, alright? Okay?”

She nods, and then Dr. Hopper’s walking back into the room. Gold leans over a presses an impulsive kiss to Belle’s cheek. “I’ll be right outside, my dear,” he says.

On his way out the door, he hazards a glance behind him. The doctor is, as he suspected, gesturing towards the bruises on Belle’s arm, a serious look on his face.

*

The wait out in the hallway feels absurdly long. He’s not particularly worried about the little chat the doctor’s having with Belle, but her being out of his sight makes him anxious. His hand is throbbing, a dull, constant pain that makes it impossible for him to even move his fingers.

After the third nurse passes him, shooting him a suspicious glare, he decides to find something else to do while Hopper tries to get Belle to make some kind of heartfelt confession of abuse or whatever the idiot doctor is doing in there.

The selection of books at the hospital gift shop is fairly appalling -- mostly generic thrillers and tawdry romance novels -- but Gold buys as many of them as he can carry, figuring Belle can take her pick. On a whim, he also purchases a small vase of bright red roses. 

It’s a task carrying all of it back up to her room, but it at least gives him something to do. When he walks back into the room, Hopper is still there, putting Belle’s chart down in the holder at the foot of her bed.

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Hopper is asking Belle. 

“I don’t think so,” Belle says. She still hasn’t seen him, so Gold just stands by the door for a moment, watching her.

“Good,” the doctor says, patting her gently on the leg. 

Belle looks very small in the hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and machines, dark circles under her eyes. But then she sees him, and she grins, her whole face lighting up. 

Hopper glances back at Gold. The doctor doesn’t look upset, so Gold figures Belle must have found some satisfactory answer for the bruises. “Now, if you can just get your husband to let us take a look at his hand...” he says, nodding at Gold on his way out the door.

As soon as it closes behind him, Belle looks at Gold, her eyes wide. “What happened to your hand?” she asks. 

“Nothing,” he shrugs, placing the roses on the table next to her bed. Her smile gets even brighter, but then when he hands her the books, she sees his hand and her face falls. 

“Rum!” she gasps, and then the coughing starts again. He holds her hand while they wait it out, and he watches her closely, making sure there’s no more blood this time. “What happened?”

“Just a few small scratches,” he tells her easily, holding up his hand for her to see. It’s incredibly painful, but he keeps his face blank. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” she says. She sounds absurdly worried, considering she’s the one hooked up to all kinds of IVs and tubes and he’s simply got a slightly damaged hand.

“I had a run-in with a suspect,” he shrugs. “But I’m fine.”

She bites her lip. “Can I see?” 

He puts his hand in hers and she ghosts her fingers over his bruised knuckles, before lifting his hand to her lips and pressing a feather-light kiss against his skin. Her breath is warm and sweet, and it stings the cuts on his knuckles, but he wouldn’t move his hand for anything.

“Rum, please,” she says desperately. “Please let them look at it.”

He’s going to protest, but her face is serious and the heart rate monitor they have her hooked up to is still beeping rather fast, so: “Okay.”

*

Gold waits until Belle falls asleep before he goes to see anyone about his hand. The whole time he’s gone, he’s anxious she’s going to wake up and he won’t be there and she’ll think he abandoned her again.

But the doctor won’t let him go until they take an x-ray, just to make sure nothing’s broken. It turns out he does have a small fracture, which Gold thinks is a small price to pay for the satisfaction he received from punching in Moe French’s face. 

He’s as patient as he can be as they wrap his hand in a soft cast and give him a couple of painkillers, which he chokes down without argument. He just really wants to get back to Belle. When he finally does, she’s still asleep, her breathing slow and even, and he pulls up a chair so he can just camp there for the rest of the night. Before he settles in, he reaches out and takes hold of her hand, the painful, anxious feeling in his chest easing as soon as he does.

He wakes up to Belle saying his name just a few hours later.

“Rum?” she asks, her voice quiet and sleep-rough. “What’re you doing?”

“Hmm?” he says, blinking into the darkness of the room. Everything feels kind of fuzzy and confused from the painkillers, like he’s underwater. 

“Come here,” she says, tugging on his good hand, the one he’s got holding onto hers. 

He just shakes his head, trying to clear it. It’s dark in the room, silent except for the beeping of the monitors, the lights blinking green and blue, casting an eerie, dream-like glow over Belle’s face.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, and her voice is hardly a whisper.

“Belle,” he says, but he’s already letting her pull him closer, any self-restraint gone in the face of the vicodin and the way she’s looking at him.

“We’re married now, remember?” she says, her mouth quirked up in a wry smile. 

His heart stutters a little at that, the thought of Belle being with his, of being with her forever. But she’s still smiling at him, and her eyes are very, very blue even in the darkness of the room. 

Gold’s whole body feels kind of light and disconnected as he climbs onto the bed next to her. She’s so warm, her skin hot against his through the rumpled suit he’s still wearing. There’s hardly room for both of them, but she’s still holding onto his hand, and she lays her head on his chest, wrapping her arm around his waist.

“I’m so glad you came back,” she says her voice low, like she’s telling him a secret. “I missed you.”

She nuzzles against his shoulder, pressing her lips to the side of his neck, kissing him gently. Her mouth rasps against the stubble on his throat, sounding strangely loud in the quiet of the room. Gold closes his eyes, holding her close to him. Her hair smells like antiseptic and snow, and it's still a little damp from the air outside. After a few moments, she slides one hand under his shirt, pressing her palm over his heart. Her fingers are warm and familiar against his skin, and in the medicine-induced fog Gold swears that he can feel her pulse beating in time with his, the rhythm of their heartbeats perfectly in sync. 

Just as he falls asleep, he feels her shift beside him, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. 

“I love you,” he hears her say, so quiet he wonders if he might have dreamed it.


	11. Belle (part 5)

When Belle wakes up, there’s light streaming in through the blinds in her room, throwing stripes of bright sunlight across her bed. It takes her a couple of seconds to realize she’s alone, that Rum isn’t in the bed with her, that he isn’t even in the room. 

She sits up as much as she can, the oxygen tube and IV pulling painfully as looks for him, but he’s not there and Belle feels a quick surge of panic.

Oh god, what if he heard her last night? She thought she was safe, that he was asleep, but he must not have been, and Belle can't help but think she's scared him away. 

She's starting to freak out when the door opens and Gold’s standing there, still wearing the same rumpled suit he had on yesterday, and the amount of relief Belle feels when she sees him is almost absurd.

He looks tired; there's a day’s worth of stubble on his face and he's got dark circles under his eyes, but he grins when he sees her, smiling so that his eyes crinkle up at the corners, and she just loves him so much.

“Hey,” Gold says. He walks over to the bed and gives her a soft kiss on the corner of the mouth, the stubble on his cheek scratchy against her lips. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she says, and she’s almost surprised by how strong her voice sounds, how much better she actually does feel. Her throat barely hurts and her lungs feel free and open, like breathing isn't a horrible chore.

“Good.” He gives her another quick kiss before settling in beside her, sitting on the bed so that they’re hip to hip. “So,” he says, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “I got you something.”

“Oh?” Belle says, wondering what else he could possibly do for her. She still hasn’t had a chance to read any of the books he brought for her last night, and the roses have already bloomed a bit more, making the room smell just a little less cold and antiseptic.

He nods and hands her a small white box, the kind you put jewelry in. Belle gives him a confused look as she opens it, not sure what to expect, and when she realizes what it is, her heart flips in her chest.

The ring is simple enough -- just a thin silver band with a small blue stone set into the center -- but Belle just stares at it for what feels like a very long time. Even with the oxygen tube, she feels like she can’t catch her breath. 

Beside her, Rum clears his throat. “Since we’re married now and all,” he says lightly. “Didn’t want anyone to get suspicious, you know?”

“Yeah,” Belle finally says, glancing back up at him. The small stone is catching the sunlight that’s coming in through the blinds, casting little bursts of blue light onto his face. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

He’s watching her carefully. “I know it’s not particularly flashy," he tells her. "But the options at the gift shop were extremely limited.”

Belle just nods, suddenly feeling like she might cry, tears pricking behind her eyes. It's just...no one's ever given her anything like this before. She reminds herself that this isn’t real, that this is just part of them being able to see each other while she’s here in the hospital, that it doesn't really mean they're married. But her hand trembles a little as she picks up the ring, the metal smooth and cool against her palm, and starts to slip it over her finger.

“Wait,” Rum says, putting his hand over hers. His fingers are warm and dry against hers, his palm slightly calloused. “Allow me, my dear.”

The corner of his mouth is quirked up in a half-smile as he holds gently onto her left wrist, careful not to press down on the tube from the IV. He holds her hand out flat and then slides the ring onto her finger, the one where a wedding ring is supposed to go.

"There you go," he says, adjusting the ring so that the stone is centered just right. "Perfect."

The metal is cool and smooth against her skin, and Belle’s heart feels like it’s not beating right. “Thank you,” she manages. 

He looks like he’s going to say something else, but just then, a nurse comes into the room, bustling around, handing Belle a little paper container of meds and checking all the machines she’s hooked up to and taking notes on Belle’s chart. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter while she works, telling Belle how much better she’s doing, how fast she’s recovering.

Belle just sits there quietly, watching Rum, ignoring the nurse when she _tsk tsks_ over the bruises on Belle’s arms. He looks exhausted, and she wonders how much he actually slept last night.

The nurse is in the middle of taking her temperature when Rum’s cell phone rings, making Belle jump a little. He reaches into his pocket and silences it, not even bothering to check who it is, just keeping his eye on Belle. Only a few seconds later, it beeps loudly, three times in a row, like someone’s texting him pretty insistently. Gold sighs and digs the phone out of his pocket, checking the display.

“Shit,” he says quietly, running a hand through his hair, making it even more of a mess than it already is.

Beside Belle, the nurse sighs. “Sir?” she says, slipping the thermometer back in its case. “There are no cell phones in here. You need to either turn it off or take it outside.”

Gold nods distractedly, still staring down at the phone. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. He catches Belle’s eye on the way out the door, and gives her a quick, tired smile. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, alright dear?”

Belle nods, biting on her lip and trying not to worry too much.

“Your husband seems really worried about you,” the nurse tells her kindly. She’s about the same age as Belle, and she’s wearing on of those old-fashioned nurse’s hats with her uniform. Belle didn’t even know they made those anymore.

“Y-yeah,” Belle stutters. “I guess.”

“How long have you two been married?” the nurse asks as she checks on Belle’s IV.

“Um,” Belle says. She bites her lip, trying to think up what an appropriate answer is, trying to remember when she first met Gold, that day when he took her down to the station and listened to her ramble on about Hemingway. It feels like forever ago. “A...a year?”

“Ah,” the nurse says with a wink. “Newlyweds. No wonder he doesn’t want to leave your side.”

Belle feels herself blush, which is absurd because it’s not like they’ve actually got some kind of adorable true love marriage or something. But, still. The ring he gave her is cool against her finger, and it’s just nice to pretend, even if it’s only for a little while.

*

When Rum finally makes it back into the room, Belle’s a couple of chapters into one of the books he brought her last night, this terrible romance about a naive young girl and a dark, brooding prince who Belle can already tell is going to sweep the girl off her feet in the most obnoxiously unrealistic way possible. 

“Hey,” she says, closing the book and setting it back down on the table next to her bed beside the vase of flowers. “Everything okay?”

Gold nods, giving her what he probably hopes is a reassuring smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, though, and Belle feels a quick flash of worry.

“You’re sure?” she asks.

“Of course,” he tells her, making his way over to the bed. He sits beside her, his hip bumping hers, and puts his good hand on the blanket over her leg. His skin is cold even though the thick cotton and he smells vaguely of snow. “It was just work. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Do you need to go in?” she says, worried that they maybe found out about her, worried that she's gotten him into trouble somehow.

He shakes his head and reaches up with his injured hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers are red from the cold, and she shivers a little when they brush against her skin.

“Not at all,” he tells her, and whatever tension was in his face before is gone now. “I’m yours for the day.”

Belle smiles, leaning into his hand, the cast scratchy and rough against her cheek. 

“So,” he says, settling in next to her. “The nurse tells me you’ll probably be able to go home later today.”

“Oh,” Belle says because that’s...that’s great, really. She does feel better, better than she has in weeks. And it’s not that she doesn’t want to be healthy again. It’s just...there’s probably no reason for her to stay with him once she’s not sick anymore. “Good.”

“Hey,” he says, reaching out and taking her hand with his non-bandaged one. “Everything okay?”

Belle nods, swallowing hard. Of course she’s going to get better, and she’s going to have to go back to her life, back to giving blow jobs in the snow for twenty bucks. It's not like she can just walk away. God, even if she did want to quit now, she couldn’t. Gaston’s got her for at least another year and after the past couple of days with her being gone, he’s probably going to tell her she owes him another six months or something. It's just so unfair, how much her life sucks, how just thinking about it makes her feel sick, her breath hitching in her throat and her eyes hot with tears.

“Belle?” Rum says, sounding worried. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Belle just shakes her head, blinking away the tears, concentrating hard on watching his hand in hers, looking at the way the ring fits perfectly on her finger, like he knew exactly what size to get.

He keeps stroking his thumb over the back of her hand, being careful of the spot where her IV goes in. It’s the same hand as the one with her hospital bracelet and she really looks at it for the first time, noticing that she’s apparently not in Storybrooke General.

“Why did we come all the way out here?” she asks, trying to focus on something besides how terrible her life is. The hospital miles and miles from Storybrooke, in a town she’s never been to.

Gold doesn’t answer at first, just looks down, like he’s trying to decide what to say, before he says, “If we went to the hospital there, someone might have known me or you and...” he trails off and Belle feels like she might cry again.

“And you didn’t want to show up with a whore,” she finishes bitterly, pulling her hand away from his. 

“No, no, sweetheart,” he says, reaching for her, taking her hand in his again. 

“Right,” Belle says, shaking her head ruefully. God, she can’t believe how stupid she is. Falling in love with him, acting like the ring is such a big deal. He probably just didn’t want to get caught, have people realize she’s nothing more than a street whore.

He toys with her ring, using his thumb to slide the stone back and forth over the top of her finger. “Ruby came to the station the other day,” he tells her.

Belle blinks. “What?”

“She wanted to report you as a missing person.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I didn’t have any idea where you were,” he says, his voice tight. “Which at the time was true.”

“Oh,” Belle says, feeling a surge of guilt.

After a couple of seconds, Gold clears his throat, and looks down at his hand, the one with the cast. "If we stayed in Storybrooke, someone would have found you," he says. "And I wasn't sure if that was such a good idea."

"Why not?" she asks, confused.

For a long moment, Gold doesn't say anything. She can see the muscles in his jaw working, tense beneath his skin, so she just waits it out. Finally: “I talked to your father.”

“What?” Of all the things she expected him to say, it definitely wasn’t that.

“I needed to find you,” he tells her. “You’d been gone for hours. I thought perhaps he could help.”

“What did he say?” Belle asks, and she hates that she sounds hopeful, that she can’t stop wishing that her father would magically start caring about her.

Gold shakes his head, but his expression has gone cold and hard. He lets go of her hand again and pulls away from her, sitting so that he's not touching her at all.

“Nothing,” he finally says. He glances back down at his hand, and Belle follows his gaze down to where he’s curling his fingers, clenching his hand over and over again like he’s making a fist.

_Oh._ Oh, god. His hand. It was really messed up yesterday, the knuckles all bloody and bruised, the kind of cuts you get from hitting someone. She can only imagine the kinds of things her father might have said to him. 

“How badly did you hurt him?” she asks, fiddling with her ring, spinning it around and around on her finger.

“No, Belle I -- ” he starts, like he’s going to deny it, but then he sighs, sounding very, very tired. “I don’t know. Rather badly, I suspect.”

Belle nods. “And you’re not going to tell me what he said to make you do it?”

He sighs again, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Does it matter?”

Belle wants to tell him that it does, that it does matter why he felt the need to beat her father so badly that it broke his hand, but the truth is, she’s not sure that it does.

“No,” she says, and he glances up at her, surprised. She’s just so tired of caring about what happens to her father, and of things between her and Rum being so weird. “No, it doesn’t.”

*

The doctor comes in a few hours later and looks her over and gives her the all clear. He prescribes her three different medications, and Rum goes down to the pharmacy to get them filled while the nurses work on getting Belle all unhooked from all the machines and tubes and everything. 

She’s just finishing up getting dressed -- putting on the blue sweater and jeans that Rum bought for her -- when he comes back into the room, the little white paper bag from the pharmacy in one hand.

“You ready?” he asks, picking up the books and the roses from the bedside table. She doesn’t have anything else that’s hers, which is pretty pathetic.

Belle nods, pulling at a slightly loose thread on the cuff of her sweater. It’s already pulled in a couple of places, probably from when the nurses had to yank it off her while she was still unconscious. “I don’t want to go back,” she confesses, just blurting it out because she can’t think of how exactly she wants to say it.

“Oh,” he says, taking a step back, this look on his face like she’s punched him. "That’s -- that’s okay, dear. There, there are some shelters downtown, I think...and they might have some room, or I can talk to the Sheriff, or...”

“No!” she says, interrupting him once she figures out what he’s saying, that he thought she meant she didn’t want to go back with him. It’s so absurdly far from the truth, Belle’s not sure if she want to laugh or cry. “No, I mean, I don’t want to go back to what I was, before I was...before we were...before you,” she finishes lamely.

“Oh, Belle,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her, strong and warm and comforting. “I don’t want that either, love.”

Belle closes her eyes, pressing herself closer to him, wrapping her arms around his back, holding onto him as tightly as she can. 

“I want more than anything for you not to go back,” he says, his voice practically a whisper. He rests his chin on the crown of her head and holds her to him so tight that she can feel his heart beat against her chest. “And, hey,” he says. “You don’t have to, okay, sweetheart? You don’t ever have to go back. You can stay with me as long as you want,” he tells her, pulling back enough to look her in the eye. “You can stay with me forever.”

Belle strokes her left thumb over the back of the ring on her finger, rubbing gently at the cool, smooth metal against her skin. Her chest feels tight as she holds onto him, pressing her nose against his throat, wishing as hard as she can that what he’s saying could be true.


	12. Gold (part 6)

Belle is quiet on the drive back from the hospital, quiet on the walk up to the apartment, quiet when they get inside. Gold doesn't try to make her talk, just holds her hand in the car on the way home and presses his bandaged hand carefully against the small of her back as they make the short walk to his apartment.

More than likely, she’s just tired. It’s been a rough couple of days, and the meds she’s on are clearly making her somewhat drowsy, all her movements slow and careful.

Gold’s plan is to just put her to bed, tuck her in and let her sleep for as long as she wants, but when he directs Belle towards the bed, she stops, pushes back against his hand.

“Everything okay?” Gold asks, which is a completely absurd question, he knows, considering everything that’s happened to her over the last few days.

But Belle nods, biting on her lower lip. She looks a little wan, but much better than she did even a day ago. “It’s just -- would you mind if I took a bath?”

Gold smiles, relieved that that’s all it is, and steers her in the direction of the bathroom. 

Belle leans against the counter while Gold runs the water for the bath, making sure the water's not too hot, and grabbing a couple of clean towels from under the sink for her to use.

“There you go,” he tells her, once he’s got everything situated. The bathroom’s already filled with steam from the hot water, and Belle looks fuzzy through the haze as he turns to leave.

“Rum?” she says softly. Her hair’s starting to frizz from the steam and her cheeks are flush, pink and rosy. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” He leans against the door frame as she takes the couple of steps over to him.

“Thank you,” she says, standing up on her toes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. 

“You’re quite welcome, my dear,” he says, smiling at the feel of her warm, soft lips against his skin.

*

There’s still a basket unfolded laundry on the sofa from the other day, so Gold busies himself getting it in order while Belle finishes up in the bath. At the bottom of the pile, he finds the _Storybrooke P.D._ t-shirt he lent Belle the first night she stayed with him, and he takes it into his room, laying it out on the bed so that she’ll see it when she’s done with her bath. 

He’s just finishing up changing out of the suit he’s been wearing for the past two straight days, when his phone buzzes, the display showing that it’s the station. After the past couple of days, his cases are starting to pile up, which means the Sheriff’s suddenly much more interested in him.

“I need to talk to you,” Swan says by way of greeting.

“Oh?” he asks, putting a stack of folded shirts in the top drawer of his dresser. “What about?”

“Moe French,” she says.

Gold sighs. Christ. If he never hears about Moe fucking French again, it will be too soon. “Can't this wait, Sheriff?” he asks tiredly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Belle emerge from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair hanging loose and wet around her shoulders. He gives her a small smile and gestures at the shirt on the bed.

“Gold--” Emma starts, but he cuts her off quickly, turning to give Belle some privacy as she pulls the t-shirt over her head. 

“Listen, dearie,” he says, voice pitched low so that Belle can't overhear. “I’m rather in the middle of something, so this will need to wait until tomorrow morning.”

“Fine,” Swan grits out. “But you can’t avoid this forever, Gold.”

“Wonderful,” he says, ending the call before the Sheriff has a chance to respond and tossing his phone on the dresser.

On the other side of the room, Belle’s already climbing into his bed, her legs bare and pale under the t-shirt. 

Gold waits for her to get under the covers, and then he flicks off the light, the room dark except for the moonlight filtering in through the blinds. He stands there in the doorway for a minute, waiting for his eyes to adjust. 

“Feeling better?” he asks, sliding into bed next to her. He leans over and presses a soft kiss against her forehead. Her skin is still damp from the bath, and she tastes clean, like soap.

Belle nods sleepily, reaching up to smooth a loose strand of hair behind his ear, her palm coming to rest against his jaw. She’s still wearing the ring, and the silver is warm against his face. 

“Good,” he whispers, turning his head to kiss her palm. She keeps her hand on his face, stroking her thumb along the stubble on his cheek.

After a couple of seconds, she shifts so that she’s even closer to him, her body flush against his, their legs tangled together. He can feel her heartbeat against his chest, the rhythm strong and familiar, and her breath is warm against his lips.

Belle kisses him gently, just a chaste press of her mouth against his. Her lips are dry and a little chapped and after just a few moments, she pulls back, resting her forehead against his.

She gives him a sleepy smile, her lips still brushing his, and when Gold puts his good hand on her hip, she makes a quiet, happy sound in the back of her throat. 

He strokes his thumb lightly against her hip as he kisses her, and they just lie there like that for a while, kissing each other lazily in the dark.

*

When Gold wakes up the next morning, Belle’s still asleep beside him, the blankets pushed down around her waist. She looks so much better than she did just a few days ago, that vaguely consumptive air about her almost completely gone, and he smiles as he pulls the covers back up, tucking her in.

She sleeps through him making coffee and taking a shower and getting dressed, and he debates whether or not he should even wake her up before he goes. 

He hates to do it, but he can’t stop thinking about how she'd thought he had left her the other night, the night when he was looking for her, and, well. They’ve got enough to deal with without those kind of ridiculous misunderstandings coming between them. 

So he sits on the edge of the bed, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Belle blinks up at him, giving him a sleepy half-smile.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says, smoothing one dark curl behind her ear.

She leans into his hand and makes a soft noise in the back of her throat. She looks ethereal in the bright morning sunlight, and Gold wants nothing more than to stay in bed with her for the rest of the day. But he knows he needs to face the Sheriff, sooner rather than later, so: “I’ve got to go to the station for a few hours," he tells her. "But I’ll be back as soon as I can, alright?”

She nods, her eyes already falling closed again as she presses her cheek against the pillow. “Okay,” she mumbles, sounding barely conscious. “Love you.”

"Belle?" Gold whispers a little desperately, but she’s asleep again, her breathing deep and even and slow.

*

When he walks into the station, Sheriff Swan is waiting for him at his desk, and Gold sighs, not even bothering to hide his irritation. 

“Moe French,” she says as soon as he walks up, staring hard at him like she’s waiting for him to confess something. Well, she can just keep waiting. 

“What about him?” he asks easily, sitting down at his desk and sorting through some of the paperwork there. He’s taken off more time in the past week than he has in the past year, and things are starting to pile up.

“Someone attacked him at his place," she tells him. "Broke his nose, fractured his cheekbone, knocked out a couple of teeth.”

Gold forces himself not to smile as he takes a folder from his inbox. “How tragic.”

“Isn’t it?” Emma says, narrowing her eyes at him. Gold ignores her, focusing on sorting through some unnecessary paperwork, and he can sense her getting more and more frustrated by his lack of response. Finally: “What happened to your hand, Detective Gold?”

“Ran into a door,” he shrugs. 

“Damn it, Gold.” Emma sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of her nose, like this whole conversation is exhausting. Gold knows the feeling.

He doesn't say anything else, and the Sheriff just watches him. He supposes she's trying to wait him out, which is absurd since he has no plans on discussing this any further with her. “Fine," she says. "But I think you should also know that he’s asked us to look into his daughter’s disappearance.” 

“What?” He’s going to fucking _murder_ Moe French.

Swan nods. “Belle French is officially a missing person. Which means that if you know where she is, you need to tell me.”

Gold keeps his eyes on his desk, forcing himself not to react. “I have no idea where Miss French might be,” he says evenly.

“You know, I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh,” he says sharply. “And why is that?”

“Because the last time anyone saw her, she was getting into your car,” she tells him, sounding awfully smug. "I've got a witness and everything."

"Really?" Gold scoffs. “And who on earth might that be?”

“The woman who runs Granny’s diner,” Swan tells him. “Mrs. Lucas. She says you brought Belle in on the night of the blizzard. Bought her something to eat and then the two of you left.”

_Fuck._

“So what’s your theory then?” Gold asks smoothly. “I bough Miss French dinner and then...what exactly? Kidnapped her? Murdered her? Locked her away in some secret sex dungeon and then assaulted her father?” 

Emma narrows her eyes. “I don’t know. But I do know that she’s missing and you’re the last person seen with her and, according to the records department, you’ve had Moe French’s file checked out for the past couple of days.” 

“Well, I am a police officer, and Mr. French is a criminal. I’m only doing my job, Sheriff.”

“Listen, Gold,” she says, her voice tight. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think you murdered her. But I do think you know more than you’re telling me, and unless Belle French shows up sometime soon, we’re going to need to start an official investigation.”

“Well, then,” Gold says, glancing up at the Sheriff. “Let’s hope she turns up soon, shall we?”

*

Gold spends the rest of the day doing paperwork, typing up reports and filing arrest records. It’s mindless and boring, but it keeps him occupied and gives him a chance to try to figure out how to get this whole situation under control.

He calls Belle during his lunch hour, talking to her in a low voice, trying to keep from smiling too much lest Sheriff Swan get suspicious.

By the time he leaves for the day, he's still got no idea what he's going to do about Mr. French or the Sheriff's absurd missing person investigation, but he figures that he'll discuss it with Belle. Together they should be able to figure something out.

*

When he gets home, the house is dark and quiet, but Gold forces himself not to assume the worst. He closes the front door quietly, taking his time as he hangs up his overcoat and kicks off his shoes, before making his way to the room.

Sure enough, when he gets back to the bedroom, Belle’s asleep in bed, her breathing slow and even, the covers pulled up around her shoulders, looking almost exactly as she did when he left that morning. If he hadn't spoken to her on the phone, he would believe she hadn't moved at all during the day.

He’s just finishing putting dinner on the table when she finally wakes up, wandering out into the kitchen, still looking sleep-rumpled. She's thrown on a pair of his boxers under the t-shirt, and he smiles when he notices.

“Hey,” he says, ladling tomato soup into a couple of bowls. He’s also got some grilled cheese cooling on a couple of plates. 

“Hi,” she says, smiling back at him. Her voice is still a little scratchy, but not nearly as bad as it has been the past few days. “What are we having?”

“Nothing fancy,” he says with a shrug. “Tomato soup and grilled cheese. Sound okay?”

“Sounds delicious,” she says, smiling at him like she means it as she settles into one of the chairs at the table. 

“Good,” he says, putting the food down in front of her. 

She takes a bite, dipping the sandwich into the soup. “My mum used to make this for me when I was a kid,” she tells him.

Gold smiles, watching her for a few seconds before he looks back down at his bowl. “I used to make it for my son,” he says. “When he was a boy.”

When he glances up, Belle is watching him closely, like she wants to say something, maybe ask him more about Bae, so before she gets a chance, Gold clears his throat and says: “We need to talk about what we’re going to do next.”

“What we’re going to do next?” she repeats. “What do you mean?”

“I spoke with the Sheriff today,” he says carefully. “And she said they’re going to start investigating your disappearance.”

“Oh,” Belle says, putting her spoon down and biting her lip. “Couldn’t you just...tell her I’m not missing? That I’m with you?”

“I wish I could,” he says, and Belle’s face falls. “But –”

“Right,” Belle says, nodding. “But you’re a cop, and I’m a whore, and, yeah. You don’t need to explain.”

“No, no I do,” he says, reaching out and putting his bandaged hand on top of hers. He wishes he’d remembered to take one of the painkillers after he got home from work, the pain in his hand throbbing and intense. “Belle,” he sighs. “Your father...after what I did to him...Sheriff Swan is already suspicious and if she discovers not only that I’m the one who attacked your father, but also that I’ve impeded her investigation into your disappearance. I just...I don’t want to lose you, Belle. Not again.” 

Belle blinks. “Oh,” she says again, her hand twitching under his, like she just remembered how he broke it, like she’s managed to forget the kind of man he is. “So what should we do?”

“I’ve no idea, sweetheart," Gold says.

“What if I go back out there?" she asks, moving her hand out from under his. "Not forever, just. You know. Make an appearance or something."

"Absolutely not," he says firmly, and Belle gives him a sharp look.

"Why not?" she demands. "If I go back, there won’t be an investigation any more, right? I won’t be missing?”

"Belle--" he starts, but she cuts him off.

"Stop trying to decide what I should and shouldn't do," she says, raising her voice a little. "I can decide."

"I know," he says, forcing himself to keep his voice level and calm. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but please, Belle. We’ll think of something else, alright? Just give me a little time.”

Belle nods, but she doesn't look at him, just stares down at the table, stirring her spoon idly through the soup.

*

They’re sitting on the couch a few hours later, Gold’s feet kicked up on the coffee table and Belle’s head resting on his lap. 

They’re watching some horrible sitcom that she chose, a bunch of too-attractive young people sitting in a coffee shop and complaining about their love lives. Gold’s only able to stomach it because he’s paying absolutely no attention to it at all, instead just watching Belle watch the show. Her hair is spread out across his legs, and he runs his fingers through it, toying with the ends. She keeps smiling at the television, her cheek moving lightly against his thigh every time she does. 

When the show goes to a commercial, Belle sighs and looks up at him. “Can’t we just run away?” she says. “Just pack a bag and leave this place? Go far enough away that my father and the Sheriff could never find us?”

Gold smiles. “And where would we go?” he asks, reaching down to straighten her ring. The stone is off-center, and he fiddles with it until it’s straight again.

Belle shrugs, her shoulder blades hitching against his legs. “Somewhere warm,” she says, looking up at him with a wistful smile. “Somewhere with a beach and palm trees and...and, piña coladas.”

Gold laughs, stroking his finger along the smooth, cool silver of her ring. “That sounds lovely, dear.”

“What about you?” she asks a few minutes later, tilting her head up so she’s looking right at him. 

He raises his eyebrows, confused. The show's started up again, but Belle's not paying attention any more.

“Where do you think we should go?” she clarifies.

“Ah,” he says, tilting his head back and staring up at the cracked ceiling of his apartment. He’s actually thought about this before, about where he could take Belle that wasn’t here, about where they would go if he actually thought they could leave Storybrooke for good. “I should think I’d like to take you back to Scotland,” he finally says. 

“Would you?” Belle asks, her mouth quirked up in a crooked smile. Her eyes are very blue. 

“Aye,” he confirms, reaching down to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “That I would, my love.” He doesn’t even realize what he’s said until he hears Belle inhale sharply.

She’s watching him with something that looks strangely like hope, her eyes bright and warm. “I think I’d like that,” she says, and the sincerity of her voice makes his heart flip.

“I'm not so sure,” Gold says, lightly. “There’s nary a piña colada to be seen.”

Belle laughs, and he just loves her so much. "What's it like then?" she says, rolling over onto her back so she can look at him.

"Scotland?" he asks, and she nods. "Ah, it's lovely. Green and lush, and there are mountains and lochs and beaches..."

"Beaches?" she says hopefully.

"Indeed," Gold says. "They may not be as tropical as you'd like, but they're quite lovely. And," he says reaching up to trace his finger along the curve of her cheek, "I imagine they could suit your purposes."

"Okay then," Belle says, like this is a real conversation and not just some fantasy. "It's settled then. That's where we'll go."

“Sounds wonderful, my dear,” he says quietly, smiling a little sadly as she turns her head and presses a quick kiss to his palm.

Belle turns her attention back towards the television, and Gold watches her for a while longer, wishing it was as easy as she made it sound, wishing they could just leave forever and never look back.


	13. Belle (part 6)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: This chapter includes brief references to past non-con.**

They go to bed early, both she and Rum are yawning hugely before it’s even nine o’clock, the two of them too exhausted to do anything other than shuffle into the bedroom. 

Belle burrows under the covers, watching while he throws on a t-shirt and pajama pants and then pulling back the blankets so he can slide into bed next to her, the two of them laying so they’re face to face. 

Rum’s so warm beside her, comforting and familiar, his face just inches from hers. Behind him, Belle can just barely make out the picture of his son on the bedside table, and she studies it as best as she can in the dark. The boy looks a lot like Rum, that same rumpled hair and sly smile. 

“What happened to him?” Belle asks quietly. “Your son?”

Beside her, Rum sighs, scrubbing his good hand across his face. “Why do you want to know?”

Belle blinks. “I just,” she says, trying to figure out how to phrase it. “I want to know you.”

“Oh,” he says, like her answer surprises him. He watches her for a few seconds, studying her in the dark. Finally: “I’ll make you a deal,” he tells her. “You tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine.”

“My story?” Belle repeats, confused. “My story about what?”

“How you ended up where you did,” he says simply, still watching her closely, like he thinks she’s not going to agree to it. Like her story is some big secret she’s not willing to share. 

But Belle just shrugs and says, "Deal."

He raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised, but Belle figures he's already seen how bad things ended up for her. There's no harm in telling him how she got there.

“My mother died," she says, figuring she might as well start at the beginning. "When I was a kid. And my dad...he didn’t take it well. Started drinking, gambling, that kind of stuff. He was a florist,” she says. “Had his own shop and everything.”

Belle smiles a little at the memory, her dad behind the counter at the flower shop, arranging roses and peonies and daylilies in these beautiful, intricate arrangements. She used to work with him after school, trimming the flowers, making sure everything looked fresh and alive. 

“So what happened?” Rum asks softly, startling her out of her reverie. 

She shakes her head like she can just erase all the memories that are there. “He started drinking more and more and then one day he hit me,” Belle says with a shrug. “And then he kept hitting me, and he kept drinking, and he kept gambling. He lost his shop first, and then one day he got in deep with some bad people, and he needed to pay them somehow, so...” she trails off, suddenly not willing to say it, that he gave her to Gaston to pay off his debts, that that’s all she was to her own father, just one more thing for him to sell.

“Oh Belle,” he says. He’s looking at her with something like pity, and Belle feels a little sick.

But she gives him a half-smile, like it’s no big deal. “It wasn’t so bad,” she shrugs, rolling over to stare at the ceiling so she doesn’t have to see the way he’s looking at her. “It was just Gaston, at first. But then,” she shakes her head and rubs a hand across her face. 

“But then...” Rum repeats, reaching out and touching her hand. It’s a soft touch -- gentle -- like he’s afraid she’s going to push him away. But instead she hooks her index finger around his pinkie, holding his hand in hers.

“But then he got bored with me and he had some friends, and...” Belle takes a deep, steady breath, forcing herself to keep going. “And then they got bored with me, too. So Gaston took me out to the town line and,” she shrugs, and Rum tightens his hand on hers. “I got some regulars and, you know. You get used to it.” 

Being with Gaston was horrible, the way he’d grab her and push her down and fuck her whenever he wanted. But he let her stay in his apartment, and he called her by her name, and she’d just...it really wasn’t all that different than what her life was like before.

But then he kicked her out, forced her to go out to the town line and work for him, and that was pretty much the end of her life being her own anymore. 

The first night he put her on the street, she fell asleep in the doorway of the library huddled in away from the cold. When she woke up there were three guys standing around her and one of them grabbed her around the waist and the other two just laughed and they dragged her behind the building and they held her down, pressing her face into the dirty asphalt, taking turns with her, laughing the whole time. 

Ruby found her a few hours later, bruised and bloody, some gravel still embedded in her cheek, and she took Belle with her to this horrible little tenement she was squatting in with a couple of other girls, but they had a little shower and Ruby let her borrow some clothes, so. Belle guesses it could have been worse. 

She thinks about saying this to Rum, but he’s already looking kind of horrified, so instead she just says, “And then I met Ruby. She’d been out there for a while and she showed me the ropes, helped me get used to it.” 

“And you never thought of leaving?” he asks, pulling her hand gently towards him, her fingers pressed against his mouth.

“Everyday,” she whispers, her voice cracking a little, and he brushes a soft kiss against her knuckles. 

“But,” she says, clearing her throat and giving him a sad smile. “My father still owes Gaston and, besides,” she says with false nonchalance. “Where else would I go?”

“Oh, Belle,” he says, looking so sad it makes her want to cry. She can feel his breath against her fingertips, her hand still against his mouth. “You could be so much more.”

She shrugs, swallowing hard. “It is what it is,” she says. “Not everyone gets happily ever after.”

He shakes his head and presses another soft kiss against her hand. He’s looking at her in this way that makes her feel kind of terrible, like she’s someone who deserves something more. 

“Your turn,” she says, trying to sound like this conversation is totally normal, something she doesn’t mind talking about at all. Rum just raises his eyebrows. “You were going to tell me about your son.”

He turns away from her, letting her hand fall away, but at least it means he’s not looking at her anymore, like she’s something pure and sweet and good. She’s not, and sometimes it makes her crazy that he can’t see that. That he acts like she’s just regular person, not some dirty whore who’s probably already ruined his life. 

“I lost him,” he says with a shrug, not making eye contact with her. “There’s nothing more to tell really.”

“Rum,” she says, not able to keep the annoyance out of her voice. It’s not fair for him to do this, not after she just told him all of the horrible things about her life. “We made a deal, remember?”

“Right,” he says softly. “Alright then. My son -- Bae was his name -- he left. And then he died.”

“Oh.” Belle flinches. It’s just...she wasn’t expecting that. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” he says, his voice so low she can barely hear him. 

Belle reaches out to touch him gently on the shoulder. His jaw is working a little, like maybe he actually does want to talk about it, so she says, “What happened?”

He closes his eyes, swallowing hard and shaking his head a little, and she thinks he’s not going to answer. But then: “I’m a difficult man to love,” he says, and then gets quiet again.

Belle reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear so that she can see his face. He looks oddly vulnerable in the darkness, tired and small.

After a couple of minutes, Rum sighs and rubs his bandaged hand across his face, the rasp of his stubble loud in the silence of the room. “Bae asked me...he wanted me to change. And I didn’t. I wouldn’t. So he took the car keys, and he left,” he tells her, his voice quiet and sad. “The streets were icy and he was just a boy, only fifteen, and the car slid, out of control, and then...” his voice gets tight, and Belle tightens her hand on his, sliding over so that she’s closer to him, their bodies flush. She puts her arm across his waist and lays her head against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, feeling horribly like she might cry. His chest is warm and solid beneath her cheek, and Belle turns her head to press a kiss in the space right above his heart, like she could heal it that way, like it was that simple. 

*

When Belle wakes up the next morning, she’s alone, the room dim with gray early morning sunlight, but she can hear Rum moving around out in the apartment.

He’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table and reading a newspaper. He’s already dressed for work, his suit dark and pressed, and he’s sipping tea out of the cup she chipped her first night here. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she says, feeling suddenly underdressed in her borrowed t-shirt and boxers. She tugs on the hem of her shirt as she slides into the chair next to him. “Work today?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, folding the newspaper closed and tossing it down on the table next to him.

“We still didn’t decide what you should tell the Sheriff,” she says, twisting her ring. She doesn't understand why he has such a problem with her going back. It's not like she's going to stay out there; she just wants to make an appearance so everyone knows she hasn't been, like, kidnapped or murdered or whatever. 

Rum shrugs. “So, I’ll tell her nothing,” he says, sliding the teacup across the table to her. His fingers brush hers, and she ducks her head to hide a smile at the contact.

Belle takes a sip of the tea, careful not to cut herself on the broken rim. It’s still warm, strong and sweet and citrusy. “You should probably just throw this out,” she says, passing it back to him. “One of us might slice our lip open on it.”

“I’ll be careful,” Rum shrugs, taking another drink, and then tilting the cup back like he’s trying to get a good look at it. “Besides, I rather like it this way.”

Belle just shakes her head. God, she was so worried he was going to be mad that she broke his cup, and now he’s decided it’s his new favorite. He gets up and presses a quick kiss to her forehead. 

“I’ll be home for dinner,” he tells her, his lips brushing the crown of her head. “There’s leftover soup in the fridge for lunch if you get hungry, okay?”

“Okay,” Belle agrees.

“You’ll be all right here?” he asks, sounding legitimately worried.

“I was all right here yesterday, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, but you seemed to have done little except sleep,” he says, pulling on his coat, maneuvering it carefully around the cast on his hand. 

“I’ll be fine, Rum,” she says, rolling her eyes a little. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

He nods and then, with another quick kiss, he’s gone.

*

The more she thinks about it, the more Belle thinks she should probably just go back out to the line and find Ruby. She’s feeling so much better than she has in weeks and if she grabs a bus, she can get out to the town line and back before lunch time, no problem. 

Her old clothes are sitting on top of Rum’s dresser, neatly folded and looking even shabbier than ever. Belle grabs her ripped up old jeans and rustles through the pockets until she finds the two crumpled up tens she made the night of the blizzard before Rum picked her up. The money is all dry and crisp from the wash, and Belle folds it up and tucks it into the front pocket of her new jeans. 

She’s wearing both of her new sweaters and it looks like it’s not snowing anymore, but it’s probably still freezing out there and even though she’s feeling much better, her throat is still a little sore and her cough hasn’t completely gone away. 

She doesn't have a coat or anything, so she ends up rifling through Rum's closet, finally finding a green army jacket that looks like it will be pretty warm. It's way too big for her, the sleeves falling down past her fingertips, but she definitely can't go traipsing around without a coat, so. The jacket’s warm though, and it smells like him, so she just rolls up the cuffs a few times so that it doesn’t look too ridiculous. Once she throws on her old scuffed up boots, she’s ready to go.

On her way out the door, For a second, she considers leaving a note for Rum, but decides against it; she’ll be home way before him. So she just grabs the spare key from the drawer in the kitchen and heads out, locking the door behind her.

Outside, the wind is biting and Belle tucks her fingers into the jacket’s deep pockets, incredibly grateful she’s got enough money for bus fare. The sidewalks are still covered in slush and the wind is strong enough that it whips right through all her layers. 

There’s a bus shelter only a couple of blocks away, but the walk there seems to go on forever, and by the time Belle gets there, her chest has started to ache and her face feels numb.

More than once she thinks about just turning around and going back, but she knows she needs to do this. It’s not fair that Rum has to lie to the Sheriff just to protect her; plus, Ruby’s probably worried sick about her, so. Better that Belle clear everything up now and then she and Rum can put all of this behind them

*

The problem with finding Ruby is that Belle’s not exactly sure where she’s staying these days. 

It’s too early for her to be at the corner, and the abandoned library where they sometimes hole up is empty, so Belle just stands next to the building for a couple of minutes trying to figure out where to go. 

The weather’s bad enough that Ruby must have found a place to stay. Which pretty much means she’s either at Ashley’s or Granny’s, and she’s betting on Ashley’s since she wasn’t anywhere to be seen that night when Rum bought Belle dinner. 

The door to Ashley’s apartment is open, and Belle walks in after a cursory knock. Ruby’s on the couch, huddled under three blankets and watching _The Price is Right_. She’s wearing a bright red tank top, and there’s a really nasty looking bruise high up on her left shoulder, purplish black against her skin. All the bruises on Belle’s arms have started to fade, turning a light yellowish green; none of them even hurt any more. 

“Oh my god,” Ruby says when she sees her, sitting up and letting the blankets fall around her waist. “I thought you were dead.”

Belle laughs ruefully. “Not yet.”

Ruby grins. “You scared the shit out of me,” she says. “Where the hell have you been anyway?” 

“Around,” Belle says, shrugging. Onscreen, an old woman just won a brand new washer and dryer, jumping up and down and clapping as the lights flash all around her.

“Well, you look a hell of a lot better than you did the last time I say you,” Ruby tells her, pulling her knees up close to her body so there’s a space for Belle on the couch.

“Yeah, well,” Belle says, sitting down next to her. The heat in the apartment must be broken because it’s freezing; Belle tucks her hands into the pockets of Rum’s jacket, hunching her shoulders against the chill. 

She sits on the very edge of the couch, antsy to get out of there. It’s just...she knows Gaston pays for this place, and even though he’s pretty much never up before noon, Belle would just feel a lot better if they could go somewhere else. 

“You want to go grab some coffee or something?” she finally asks.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ruby sighs, sitting up and tossing the blankets off her. “Granny’s been after me to come see her, so. Might as well get that over with.”

Belle smiles, relieved, as Ruby flicks off the TV and heads over to the bathroom to get changed.

*

The diner’s pretty empty when they get there, the breakfast rush long over, just a couple of old men sitting up at the counter. Granny raises her eyebrows when she sees them, heading over to their booth as soon as they sit down.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says, hands on her hips. 

Ruby rolls her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest. “I’ve been busy, okay?”

“I bet,” Granny huffs, reaching over and flipping over the coffee mugs in front of them. Ruby slides the jacket off her shoulder and Granny sighs. “You do know it’s freezing out there don’t you?”

“Oh, is it?” Ruby gasps. “I had no idea! Thank you so much for that.”

Granny sighs and shakes her head before looking over at Belle. “And you,” Granny says, jerking her chin in Belle’s direction. “People have been looking for you, you know,”

Belle nods, sheepish. “Yeah, I know.”

“The Sheriff came by and everything,” she says. “Told her you were in here with that cop on the night of the blizzard, that she should ask him.”

Ruby shoots her a look, but Belle ignores her, focusing on carefully unwrapping her silverware instead. 

“All right,” Granny says, getting out her order pad. “What are you girls having?”

“Just coffee,” Ruby says with a shrug. She's still watching Belle, her head tilted slightly like she's trying to figure something out.

“Not a chance,” Granny tells her. “Order some food. You two are just skin and bones.” Ruby opens her mouth to protest, but Granny holds up a hand to cut her off. “It’s on the house.”

Ruby smiles, and Granny writes down their orders for pancakes and fills their coffee mugs, mumbling under her breath about how they could at least try to order something somewhat healthy since they’re getting it for free and all.

“Alright, spill,” Ruby says as soon as Granny’s out of earshot. “What cop?”

Belle shrugs again, concentrating on pouring sugar into her coffee. “Detective Gold,” she finally mumbles, feeling herself blush.

“Oh my god,” Ruby gasps. “Detective Gold? I knew it! Man, I can’t believe you, Belle.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Belle demands.

“Uh, he’s a _cop_ ,” Ruby says, like this is news. 

Belle shrugs. "So?" 

“ _So_...what?” Ruby asks. “You’ve been, like, living with him? At his house?”

Belle nods.

“Is he paying you?”

“God, Ruby, no!” Belle says, probably more offended than she has any right to be. “It’s not like that.”

“So what is it like?”

“It’s...I don’t know,” Belle says with a shrug. “I just -- I like him.”

“You like him,” Ruby repeats, grinning. 

“Shut up,” Belle says, rolling her eyes and nudging Ruby’s foot under the table.

Ruby laughs. “No, I can see it. I mean, yeah, he’s a complete prick, but he’s got that kind of sophisticated older man thing happening, you know?”

“Yeah, well,” Belle says. She just wants to drop this whole conversation. “I just wanted to stop by, let you know I was okay.”

“You’re not staying?” Ruby asks. 

Belle shakes her head. “I’ve gotta get back home,” she says without thinking, and it takes her a second to realize that Ruby’s giving her a weird look.

“Home?” Ruby says. “So this is permanent?”

Belle shrugs. “I think so, yeah.” 

Ruby just stares at her, and Belle bites her lip, waiting. Finally, Ruby gives her a little half-smile and says, “Good.”

Belle smiles, strangely relieved that Ruby believes her, that she thinks that someone could actually want Belle, that Belle might be something more than everyone thinks she is. 

“You deserve better than this,” Ruby says, gesturing vaguely at the street outside.

“You think so?” Belle asks.

“Of course,” Ruby says with a nod, sliding out of the booth. 

Belle smiles, getting to her feet. She loops her arm through Ruby’s as they make their way over to say goodbye to Granny.

*

Outside, the air smells like snow and it’s getting dark, the clouds heavy and grey. Ruby gives them a worried glance as she pulls on her jacket.

“You want to come back with me?” Belle asks. “I’m sure Rum wouldn’t mind.”

" _Rum?_ " Ruby repeats, incredulous. "His name is _Rum_?"

"I mean, Detective Gold," Belle mumbles, her cheeks burning.

“Go to a cop’s house?” Ruby scoffs. “No thanks.”

“Okay, well,” Belle says, feeling suddenly sad, like she shouldn't just be leaving Ruby like this, half-dressed in the cold, while Belle goes back to Rum's cozy apartment. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Always,” Ruby says with a smirk. 

Belle leans over and hugs her, wrapping her arms tight around Ruby’s thin shoulders. After just a second, Ruby hugs her back, her nose pressed against Belle’s hair. “If you ever need anything,” Belle says. “I’ll be around, okay? Just let me know.”

Ruby nods, squeezing Belle a little tighter before letting go. “I’ll see you around, Belle,” she says quietly, like she doesn't actually think she will. 

Belle just nods, tucking her hands into the pockets of Gold’s jacket as she watches Ruby walk away. Once Ruby’s out of sight, Belle walks the block to the nearest bus stop. 

It’s deserted, the street quiet and empty, and Belle sits down under the bus shelter, folding her arms over her chest and tucking her head down against the cold. 

*

She’s still sitting there when she hears a car pull up to the curb, the engine too quiet to be the bus. When she looks up, there’s an old black Mustang idling there, and Belle freezes, a cold spike of fear running through her. 

She doesn’t even have a chance to move before the driver’s door opens and Gaston gets out, his face blank and terrifying. 

“Hello, Belle,” he says. He leaves the car running, the engine idling loudly. There’s still no one else around, the street completely empty. 

It takes her a second before she can make herself move, and she tries to run, but she’s still sick and she doesn’t get very far before Gaston’s on top of her. He grabs her around the upper arm, hard enough to bruise, yanking her towards him, dragging her towards his car. He’s so much bigger than her, his hands big and brutal against her arm, and she looks around desperately, hoping someone will see them.

“Where the fuck have you been, little girl?” he says, tightening his grip on her arm until Belle whimpers. He smiles, cold and dangerous.

“Gaston,” she pleads, trying to pull away from him. He digs his fingers in even deeper, and Belle bites her lip to keep from crying out again. “Please, I can explain, I can –” 

She’s been away for so long that she’s not expecting the punch.

His hand connects with her cheekbone, hard enough that it feels like her eye is going to explode, and Belle falls, her knees hitting the ground roughly, and then everything goes black.


	14. Gold (part 7)

Gold spends most of his morning filling out paperwork and typing up case reports, trying to keep Sheriff Swan off his back. 

It’s slow going, his bandaged hand forcing him to type even slower than he usually does. The work is tedious and dull, but he does manage to avoid the Sheriff, and she doesn’t bother him anymore about his hand or Moe French or her absurd investigation into finding Belle.

Once he’s got all of the bureaucratic bullshit in order, he starts to look more into Gaston, pulling up all of the records on him he can find, digging deeper than he did earlier in the week, before he knew the whole story, before he knew exactly what the man had done to Belle.

Most of what he finds is stuff he already knows -- plenty of arrests, but not many convictions -- but he finds the man’s address, an apartment in one of the pricey new high rises downtown. Seems Gaston’s little business of buying and selling girls is rather lucrative.

By noon he's begun plotting Gaston's slow, painful death, and he takes a break from his research to call Belle. The phone rings and rings and rings, Belle not picking up, and Gold forces himself not to panic. 

Most likely, she’s either in the bath or sleeping; she is still healing from pneumonia, after all. 

He spends the few minutes staring at his computer screen, re-reading some of the reports on Gaston and trying to quell the sick feeling of worry building in his stomach, before he reaches for the phone again. 

He calls twice more over the next twenty minutes, but each time it just rings straight through to his answering machine. 

After the last call, the sick feeling has turned to panic, and he’s got his coat on and is halfway out the door when Sheriff Swan stops him.

“Hey,” she says. “We found your girl.”

“What?” he says distractedly, trying to pull his overcoat over the bulky cast. 

“Belle French,” Emma says, folding her arms across her chest. “She showed up this morning at Granny’s diner, alive and well.”

“You’re sure?” Gold asks, his coat hanging awkwardly off his arm. It’s just...that’s not possible. Even though she's not answering the phone, Belle must be at his apartment. She’s still ill and she’s resting and she wouldn’t leave to go traipsing around in the cold to go to some shitty little diner, especially not without letting him know about it first.

“Yeah,” the Sheriff confirms. “Mrs. Lucas called, said she was in there with her niece Ruby this morning.”

“When?” Gold demands. “When was she there?” 

“Not sure exactly,” Emma shrugs. “I talked to Mrs. Lucas a few hours ago though.”

“A few _hours_ ago?” he repeats. What in the actual fuck? 

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Is there a problem?” 

“No,” he says sharply, already moving towards the door. His hand has started to throb again, these sharp daggers of pain shooting up his arm. “No problem at all.”

* 

He calls Belle three more times on the drive home, letting the phone ring and ring and ring each time until his machine picks up. 

“Shit!” he says after the last time the machine answers instead of Belle, throwing his phone onto the dashboard. 

Outside, the snow is starting up again, a light dusting a flakes powdering the windshield, and Gold flicks on the wiper blades and presses harder on the gas. 

*

The apartment is empty when he gets there, Belle nowhere to be found. Her old clothes are still sitting on his dresser, folded in a neat pile, but the sweaters he bought her are gone, and so are her boots. 

He wants to think nothing’s wrong, that she’s just out for a walk or still visiting with Ruby or, Christ, even that she left him for good, but he can’t believe that. Not after last night, not after everything she told him.

Something’s happened to her, something’s gone wrong. He knows that with absolute certainty.

Before he leaves, he writes a note for Belle, telling her he’s gone looking for her, telling her to call him. He signs it _Love, Rum_ and leaves it in the center of the kitchen table just in case, held down by her chipped cup. 

When he gets to his car, he makes sure his service weapon is loaded and tucked safely in the holster under his jacket.

*

Gold starts with the diner, since he’s not sure where else to go, telling himself there's no way that Belle would be back down at the town line.

Granny’s isn’t too busy, the tail-end of the lunch crowd just trickling out. Mrs. Lucas is at the register, and he waits until she done ringing up a couple of businessmen before he approaches her, cutting in front of a line of young professional types, all of them complaining loudly when he steps in front of them. Gold just gives them a cursory flash of his badge before focusing on Mrs. Lucas, asking her about Belle.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Lucas says, nodding for the couple behind standing behind Gold to come up to the register. They do, and he steps out of the way just enough for them to be able to pay. “She was in here this morning with my niece.”

“Ruby?” he asks, making sure the Sheriff’s information was correct. 

“Yeah,” Granny says, swiping a credit card and handing a man about Gold’s age a receipt. “She and Belle are friends.” 

“You know where I can find Ruby?” he asks, wishing he’d thought to get that information from the girl the other night when she came into the station.

“Well, she doesn’t have a place of her own right now,” she tells him, gesturing curtly for the next customers to step up the register. “But she said she’s staying with a friend.”

“And might you have an address for this _friend_?” he says. 

She shoots him a dark look, but takes out her order pad, scribbling an address on the back of one of the tickets and handing it over the counter to him.

*

Ruby’s staying at a rat-trap apartment out by the freeway, a converted motel full of junkies and street kids. 

Gold makes his way over to the apartment number scribbled on the back of the diner ticket, pounding on the door until Ruby swings it open, squinting out into the late afternoon sun.

“Yeah?” she says. She’s got a blanket wrapped around her and she’s wearing that same threadbare, too-small red jacket from the other day. “Oh,” she says, recognition crossing her face. “It’s you.”

Gold nods and pushes past her into the apartment. Inside, it’s cold and dark and smells vaguely of rancid food; if it weren’t for the television blaring in the corner, he’d suspect the power had been turned off. “I’m looking for Belle.”

“Last I saw her was outside the diner, said she was heading back to your place,” Ruby says, sitting down heavily on the couch and pulling the blanket tighter around her body. “ _Home,_ she called it,” she says with a little laugh, shaking her head like the idea is totally absurd. 

“And when was this?” 

She shrugs and looks over at the television, away from him. “I don’t know. A couple of hours ago?” 

“Do you think you could be a bit more specific, dearie?” Gold asks sharply. “What time did you leave the diner?”

“Um...” she says, picking at the red nail polish flaking off her fingers. “Like ten-ish, maybe?”

Fuck. It’s almost three now. That means Belle’s been missing for five hours. 

“Okay,” he says, pacing back and forth in front of the television so that Ruby has to crane her neck to see the screen. “Okay, I need you to help me. I need you to help me find Belle, alright?”

“Okay, yeah,” she says with a vague nod, still trying to look around him at the TV.

Gold glances behind him; she’s watching one of those daytime talk shows, the ones where the audiences jeers at the guests, and Gold slams his hand against the television stand, hard enough that the set crashes to the ground.

Ruby jumps. “What the fuck, man?”

“Ruby,” he says, clenching and unclenching his good hand, forcing himself not to shout at her, to keep his voice level, to get her to help him. “I need you to help me find Belle, right? She’s missing and I don’t...” he pulls a hand through his hair, looking around the room helplessly. “I don’t know where to find her, okay?”

Ruby nods. “Okay,” she says, sounding more sure, more like she’s actually with him on this.

“Good,” he says, relieved. “Good. You, uh, you know this man that thinks he owns Belle? Gaston?”

Ruby nods again, biting nervously at her lip. 

“You think he’d take her to his place?” he asks. All the arrest reports listed the same address for Gaston, one of those slick new apartment buildings downtown.

“No way,” she says. “He won’t bring any of us there. Doesn’t want any of his whores dirtying up the place.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. He figured as much. A man like Gaston doesn’t get away with the shit he’s gotten away with by being sloppy. “Where else might he take her then?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby says, shaking her head and chewing on the ragged edge of one thumbnail. “He’s got places all over town. Hell, he owns this place. And there’s a couple of places down over by the docks, a few near the town line, an old house out by the Mayor’s office...”

“God _damn_ it!” he yells, punching the wall next to the front door with his good hand. 

Ruby flinches, pulling her knees up to her chest, making herself as small as possible. Gold takes a deep breath and presses the heel of his hand against his forehead. 

“Okay,” he says, trying to think. “Alright. This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to see Belle’s father,” he tells her, the plan coming together even as he says it. “And you’re going to talk to some of your little friends. Contact the other girls, find out if they’ve seen Belle or Gaston. You find something, you call me. You still have my card?”

“Yeah,” Ruby says, fumbling around in the pocket of her jacket and pulling out his card, stained and crumpled. “Yeah, it’s right here.”

“Good,” he says, already heading towards the door, the weight of the gun heavy and comforting against his side. “Call me if you find anything.”

*

The weather’s getting worse again, and Gold makes a quick pass by the library to make sure Belle’s not out there. Not that he thinks she would be, just. He just wants to find her and know she’s safe. 

But it’s mostly empty out there, just a couple of girls he doesn’t recognize on the corner, the two of them leaning against the wall in their mini-skirts, huddled together against the cold. The girls are young and thin and one of them’s got a cough to match Belle’s. 

Gold drives by them slowly, gripping the steering wheel tightly with his undamaged hand, planning exactly what he’ll do when he gets to Mr. French’s place. 

*

When Gold gets into the stairwell leading up to Moe French’s apartment, he unholsters his weapon, walking up to the door with the pistol gripped loosely in his good hand.

He knocks on the door with his broken hand, the cast making the sound muted and soft. Moe opens the door after a just a couple of seconds, but when he sees it’s Gold he tries to slam it closed again, his bruised face going slack with fear.

Gold pulls the gun out in front of him before French can get the door even halfway closed, holding the Sig level with the other man’s chest. 

“Oh my god,” French says, his voice shaky and scared. Gold smiles at him, cold and angry, and gestures with the gun for Moe to let him inside. 

He does, stepping backwards into the apartment to let Gold in, stumbling over the trash-strewn coffee table and falling onto the couch. “Please,” he says, begging and sniveling, his hands raised in front of him. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Gold laughs bitterly and then whips the gun across Moe’s face, the barrel catching him on the bruises on his cheek, and he howls in pain.

“Now,” Gold says, sitting down on the coffee table, kicking empty fast food wrappers and beer cans out of the way. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer it. You say anything else and -- ” he taps Moe’s other cheek with the gun, ignoring the way French is whimpering and the blood trickling from the cut on his face. “ -- I promise you’re not going to like the results.”

French nods, flinching away from the pistol.

“Good.” Gold sits back, keeping the gun trained on French. “Now, tell me: where is Belle?”

“Belle?" he repeats, licking nervously at his lip as he watches the gun in Gold's hand. "Christ, I’ve got no idea where Belle is. Haven't seen her in weeks.”

“That’s not the answer I’m looking for,” Gold tells him, moving close enough to touch French's face with the gun. There’s a series of stitches down Moe’s cheek from when Gold hit him the other day, and he draws the Sig down Moe’s cheek, tracing the line of stitches with the muzzle. “Where is she?”

“I swear, I’ve got no idea where she is,” he says, his voice high and nervous when the metal touches his skin. “Please! No! Listen! I haven’t seen Belle in weeks.”

Gold leans in, staring hard at him, pressing the gun harder and harder against his face. “You’re sure about that, Mr. French?”

“Yes! Please, I have no idea where she is!” He sounds desperate and pathetic, but Gold thinks he may be telling the truth. He hits him anyway, knocking the gun hard against the corner of his mouth, smiling darkly when French cries out, bloody spittle dotting his chin.

“Alright, then,” he says once Moe quiets down. “What about Gaston? Do you know where I might find him?”

Moe pulls back a bit, his face closing off a little, looking shrewd even through the blood and bruises. 

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” French says, and the trace of smugness in his voice makes Gold want to pull the trigger, end his sorry fucking life, make sure he never hurts Belle again.

Instead, Gold hits him with the gun again, hard enough to rip a couple of the stitches from his cheek. Moe screams, a weak, pathetic sound that just pisses Gold off even more, making him think of all the pain the man’s caused for Belle, the ways he hurt her without thinking twice.

“Tell me where he is,” he says. When Moe doesn’t respond except to sob, Gold hits him again, opening up a scab near his eye. The blood from his face is starting to drip down to his shirt, turning the fabric a bright red-brown. “Tell me where he is,” he says again, slamming the gun into French’s temple, opening up another gash.

Gold’s pulling back the pistol again when his phone rings, and he fumbles it out of his pocket, the flipping it open clumsily with his injured hand, not even bothering to check the display to see who it is. He keeps the gun trained on Moe, even though he probably doesn’t need to, the other man curled in on himself, pressing his back hard against the couch.

“Belle?” Gold says desperately into the phone. “Sweetheart, is that you?”

“Uh, no. It’s me...Ruby?” 

“Have you found Belle? Is she with you?” he asks, letting the gun fall to his side. Moe lets out shaky breath, but doesn’t move. 

“No. No, but, uh, I think might know where she is?” she says, and Gold’s heart skips. “One of the girls she said she saw her and Gaston at the library.”

“I’ve already been by there,” he says with a sigh, knocking a pile of trash off the table next to him with an angry sweep of his hand. Fuck. “Belle wasn’t there.” 

Across from him, Moe’s still cowering, sniveling with his arms raised protectively in front of his face, and Gold wants to hurt him more than he's ever wanted to hurt anyone. He thinks again about killing him, just putting the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. The only thing stopping him is the incredibly small chance that it would hurt Belle.

“No, there’s a caretaker’s apartment upstairs,” Ruby’s saying, her voice shaky and nervous in his ear. “In the old clock tower? Gaston uses it sometimes, and, um, one of the girls said she saw him take Belle there.”

Gold hangs up, sliding the phone back in his pocket and re-holstering his gun. Moe French makes a quiet, relieved sound, and Gold leans over him, grabbing him by the hair and pulling his head back so that they’re face-to-face. 

Both of Moe’s eyes are almost completely swollen shut and his breath is rank in Gold’s face, but Gold makes sure the other man is focused on him before he says anything.

“If Belle is hurt, if anything has happened to her, I will come back, and I will kill you,” he says, his voice flat and cold and hard. 

Moe just blinks, and Gold tightens his grip on his hair, leaning even closer to him.

“I will kill you,” he says again slowly, relishing the real fear he sees in the Moe's eyes. “Do you understand?”

Moe nods, swallowing hard, and Gold lets him go, pushing him back against the couch, leaving him there to cry and cower and bleed as Gold heads back out into the cold to find Belle, swearing to himself that if anything has happened to her, he'll be back to keep his promise to her father before the night is through.


	15. Belle (part 7)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: This chapter contains threats of rape/non-con**

When Belle wakes up, she’s in Gaston’s car, slumped in the passenger seat. The ache in her chest is back, making it hard to breathe, and her cheek feels hot and painful, her left eye almost swollen shut. 

She shifts in her seat and Gaston guns the engine as he glances over at her, his expression blank.

“Gaston,” she says, bracing her hand against the door as he takes a turn too fast. “Please, let me explain. I was going to come back. I was, I just --”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, reaching over and backhanding her casually across the face, his knuckles connecting painfully with her nose.

Belle whimpers, pressing her body against the door. He doesn't look over again, and Belle reaches up to wipe at the trickle of blood coming from her nose. Some of it gets on the cuff of Rum’s jacket, and Belle rubs at it, her eyes welling up with tears when it doesn’t come off.

The coat smells like him, and she burrows down into it, closing her eyes and wishing she were anywhere else, that she was back at Rum’s apartment, safe and warm and loved.

She doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive, just tries to make herself as small as possible, huddled up against the door, the coat wrapped tight around her.

*

The car jerks to a stop outside the library, but Belle doesn’t move, just stays where she is, waiting for whatever’s going to happen to happen. 

She’s too sick to run, and, anyway, there’s nowhere for her to go, not this far out near the line. All running would do is piss Gaston off even more, and Belle’s not willing to take that chance, not yet at least.

So she just waits in the car until Gaston comes around and wrenches her door open, grabbing her arm roughly and yanking her out of the car. She stumbles out behind him, trying not to fall down, trying to keep up with him as he drags her towards the library.

It’s snowing again, just some light flurries, but the streets are covered in ice and slush, and Belle slips as Gaston yanks her across the street.

There are a couple of girls standing on the corner, both of them barely dressed and huddled together against the cold as they watch Gaston drag her from the car. 

Belle thinks about calling out to them for help, but when they see that she’s with Gaston, they just turn away, staring down at the ground with their shoulders hunched and their backs towards them.

It only takes Belle a second to realize that he’s bringing her to the old caretaker’s apartment above the library, the one he used to let her stay in when it got too cold, back before he got bored with her and decided she wasn’t even worth a mattress on the floor. 

Inside, the living room is dotted with bare mattresses, all of them empty except one. There’s a girl sleeping on a mattress near the window, just dressed in her underwear, her skin a sickly pale blue from the cold. When she sits up, she blinks at them sleepily, looking confused, and Belle recognizes her as one of Killian’s friends -- Aurora, she thinks her name is.

“Get the hell out,” Gaston says, and Aurora nods dazedly, getting to her feet unsteadily and starting to rustle around at some of the piles of trash and clothes on the floor.

“Are you deaf, bitch?” Gaston yells. “Get out!”

“I need my clothes,” she mumbles, kicking pathetically at a pile of rags.

“No, you don’t,” he tells her, taking a threatening step towards her, pulling Belle with him.

Aurora doesn’t seem scared. “It’s snowing,” she says, still looking for her clothes, not even sparing Belle a glance. “I’ll freeze to death.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Gaston sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Give her your jacket,” he says to Belle, pushing her towards Aurora.

Belle hurries over to her, shrugging Rum’s jacket off her shoulders.

“Call Ruby,” she tells her urgently, pushing the jacket into her hands. Gaston’s already moving over to them, yelling at Belle to shut up, for Aurora to take the coat and get out. Belle ignores him, talking louder to that Aurora will be able to hear her over his shouting. “Tell her I’m here. Tell her to call Detective Gold.” 

Gaston grabs her then, smacking her hard enough that her ears ring and shoving her down onto the mattress. “Your little whore friend isn’t going to be able to help you,” he says with a sneer.

Across the room, Aurora’s sidling out the door with Rum’s jacket held against her chest, but Gaston’s over to her in a just a few steps. He grabs Aurora by the hair, yanking her head back until she cries out. 

“And you,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You tell anyone to call the cops on me, and it’ll be the last thing you do, you understand?”

Aurora nods, swallowing hard. “Y-yes sir.” 

“Good.” Gaston smirks, and shoves her out into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind her. 

When he turns back to Belle, he’s got a dangerous look on his face, his eyes hooded and dark. 

“Gaston, please,” she says, pushing herself back up and getting to her feet. 

Gaston takes a threatening step towards her, but Belle holds her ground, tilting her chin up defiantly, and he stops, squinting at her like he’s confused. 

“Since when are you so brave?” he asks.

Belle just shrugs, refusing to look away as he moves across the room towards her. He doesn’t stop until he’s looming over her.

“You know, Belle,” he says, reaching up to stroke the back of his hand against her cheek. "You've always been my favorite."

Belle flinches before she can stop herself, turning her face away from him. 

He grabs her, holding her chin in his big, rough hand, forcing her to look at him again. “You know you’re mine, right?” he says, fingers tightening painfully on her face. “That you belong to me?”

Belle doesn’t say anything, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath hot and moist on her cheek. 

“I’m so glad your father gave you to me,” he tells her, voice low and intimate, like he’s telling her a secret. He’s still holding her face in one hand, and he moves the other up to cup her breast, squeezing her roughly through her clothes.

His touch makes her skin crawl, but Belle forces herself not to react, biting down on the inside of her lip hard enough that it starts to bleed, the sick, coppery taste of blood filling her mouth. 

He's got both his hands on her, his breathing getting rough and heavy as he presses his hips into hers, when his phone trills, ringing loud enough to make Belle jump.

“Damn it,” Gaston mutters, letting Belle go and pulling his phone out of his jacket. “What?” he snaps into the phone, pacing away from Belle. 

She takes a shaky breath, watching as Gaston moves across the room towards the doorway, arguing with whoever it is on the phone. 

Even though he’s blocking the only way out, she can’t help but notice how close she is to the door, how few steps it would take for her to be out of here.

She doesn’t think she could outrun him, not with how sick she feels, how much her throat hurts and her chest aches, but it’s good to keep that in mind. That she might be able to get away, if things get too bad tonight.

She’s still thinking about it when Gaston hangs up, stalking back over to her, looking annoyed.

“This is going to have to wait,” he tells her, like they were just in the middle of a normal conversation, like he wasn’t just about to rape her. “I’ve got some business I’ve got to take care of.” He sighs, studying her like he’s trying to make a decision. Finally: “Turn around,” he orders her, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, and despite her best efforts, her voice shakes. 

“I told you,” he says, whipping the belt out of the loops and then shoving her around so that she’s facing the wall. “I’ve got some business to take care of. And seeing as how you like to run off, I’m going to make sure you don’t go anywhere.” 

He grabs her arm and wrenches it behind her back, looping the belt around her wrist and then pulling her other arm back as well, tying her wrists together with quick, brutal efficiency. 

“Gaston, don’t. Please,” she says, feeling panicked as he tightens the leather against her skin. “You don’t need to do this. I’ll be good. I won’t try to get away. I promise.”

He laughs, and gives the strap a sharp tug, the pain making Belle gasp. “Yeah, you’d never try to run away from me, right?”

“I won’t,” she says again. “I won’t, I swear.” The belt is painfully tight, and Belle pulls ineffectively against the bindings, the bones in her wrist grinding together.

Gaston’s hands still and, for just a second, Belle thinks that he’s actually going to stop, but instead he grabs her left hand, squeezing hard enough that she whimpers. 

“What the fuck is this?” he demands, and it only takes her a second to realize that he’s found the ring.

“It’s nothing,” Belle says desperately, trying to curl her hand closed and twisting away from him, but Gaston grabs the ring and yanks it roughly off her finger. 

“Are you stealing from me, bitch?” he says, shaking her hard enough that her teeth clack together painfully.

“No, no I wouldn’t,” she says. “It’s mine.”

“Yours?” he scoffs, sliding the ring over his pinkie. He can’t even get it past the first knuckle and it looks absurd, small and flimsy, but he leaves it there. “Nothing’s yours. I _own_ you, Belle. This,” he holds up his hand to show her the ring. “This is just one more thing you owe me.”

He shoves her to the ground, her knees hitting the rough wood floor with a crack, splinters ripping through the fabric of her jeans and tearing at her skin. Her eyes get hot with tears and Belle ducks her head, trying to blink them away before Gaston can see.

There’s a knock at the door, and Gaston gives her a swift, sharp kick to the stomach. “Don’t fucking move,” he tells her. Belle nods, hot tears running down her face even as she holds out a weak, irrational hope that whoever’s here is going to help her.

It turns out to be one of Killian, which makes Belle's heart sink. When he sees Belle, he smirks, shaking his head in mock-sadness at her.

"Someone's in trouble," he says in sing-song, winking at her before following Gaston over to the rickety table near the kitchen, leaving Belle crying and bloody and tied up on the dirty wood floor.

*

Killian and Gaston spend hours at the table, talking and arguing in low voices, so quiet so that she can’t overhear. 

She keeps her eyes trained on the two of them as she struggles against the belt, trying to loosen it up enough to pull one of her hands free. The whole left side of her face hurts, and her vision on that side is blurry, everything hazy and sort of fuzzy.

Before too long, her shoulders start to ache and her fingers have gone numb, but she seems to be making some progress on her bonds, the leather seeming to stretch out a little. She keeps pulling and twisting, trying to keep her movements subtle enough so as to not draw any attention. 

She tries not to think about anything but getting her hands free, tries not to think about whether or not Rum’s noticed she’s missing, if he’s out looking for her yet. 

Belle feels strange without the ring, like she’s missing a part of herself, which is absurd, she knows. It’s just some stupid trinket, just part of a lie. It’s not like it was a real wedding ring, not like Rum actually wanted to be married to her, but she can’t help feeling like Gaston taking the ring is some kind of horrible omen, a sign that what he’s said is true, that she belongs to him and that she’ll never escape.

The edges of the belt bite into her skin, her wrists turning raw before she feels the hot, slick wetness of blood on her skin. She has to bite hard on her lip to keep from making any noise, but at least the blood makes her hands slip more easily in the restraints.

By the time the men get up from the table, Belle’s managed to get the belt loose enough that she can slip one hand out, pulling frantically at the leather as she frees her other hand. 

Before he leaves, Killian gives her a little wave, smiling at her cruelly. Belle keeps her hands behind her back, not reacting at all as she watches Gaston shut the door behind him, trying not to give anything away so that she still has element of surprise on her side. 

The truth is, she has no idea what she’s going to do; her hands hurt and her head is throbbing so much it’s hard for her to think straight, but she holds the belt as tightly as she can, keeping her back to the wall. 

It’s starting to get dark, and her left eye is swollen shut from when he hit her all those times, so it’s hard for her to focus on him as he moves around the room.

When he finally makes it over to where she is, he squats down so that they’re face to face. “So,” he says, reaching up to push a strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles scrape against the bruises on her face and she winces. “Where were we?”

Belle swallows hard, turning away from him as much as she can, wincing away from his touch. His breath is hot and rank against her cheek, and she tries to stay calm, raising the belt in her hand slowly, trying to move so he won’t see what she’s doing.

He pushes his hand up under her shirt, grabbing at her, the touch of his skin making her feel sick. His breathing gets heavy and rough, and his fingers are hard and bruising as he touches her, but Belle focuses on waiting for her moment, keeping her eyes open so she can see the exact moment when his close.

When she swings the belt, he doesn’t see it coming, and the buckle catches him on the cheek, slicing his face open in a bloody gash.

“What the _fuck!_ ” he yells, shoving Belle away from him and reaching up to touch his face. His fingers come away bloody, and he looks at Belle with such fury that she takes an unconscious step backwards.

She keeps the belt held tight in her hand, getting ready to hit him again, forcing herself to be brave, to not run. 

“Stay away from me,” she says, her voice cracking.

He grins, cold and furious. “Oh, you are going to pay for this, Belle,” he says, curling one hand into a fist and taking a threatening step towards her and then another and another, forcing her backwards until she’s up against the wall. He’s between her and the door, and the wall is rough at her back, and Belle starts to panic. 

She makes one last desperate attempt to get away, trying to dart around him and to the door, but he’s too big and too fast and he grabs her by the throat, lifting her up off the ground and holding her against the wall, her feet kicking desperately for purchase.

The belt falls from her hand, and he kicks it across the room, tightening his hand against her throat.

She screams loud enough to make him wince and she kicks at him, but he’s holding her up against the wall and she can’t get enough leverage to get any force behind the kicks. He laughs and reaches up to grab hold of the collar of her sweater, tearing at it until it rips away, leaving her naked and exposed. 

Belle sobs. “Please,” she begs, clawing at his hand around her neck, gasping for breath as she tries to get enough air getting into her lungs. 

“Shut the fuck up, bitch,” he growls, giving her a hard shake for emphasis, Belle’s head knocking back against the wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

With his free hand, he reaches down and starts working at his fly, yanking down his zipper, and Belle kicks at him desperately.

His hand is so tight around her neck, though, and her movements are weak as she struggles against him. "Please," she manages to choke out, her voice barely a whisper.

“Shut up,” he says again, pressing so hard against her throat that she starts to pass out. 

Her vision is starting to go black around the edges, so she doesn’t even see Rum until he’s right in front of her, standing behind Gaston, his face a mask of rage as he presses the barrel of his gun to the back of Gaston’s head.


	16. Gold (part 8)

It's dark when Gold finally gets to the library. Despite the cold there are at least half dozen girls standing on the corner, hips cocked invitingly at the sparse traffic on the street.

Most of them drop back down into the shadows when he pulls up in his cruiser, which is more than fine with him. He has a feeling that he’s going to want as few witnesses as possible being able to identify him here.

It doesn’t take him long to find the old staircase in the back of the building, the one leading up to the old apartment above the library, and he’s just ducked through the doorway when he hears Belle scream. His stomach drops, and he starts running, taking the stairs two at a time.

When he breaks through the door of the caretaker’s apartment, he sees Belle being held against the wall, struggling weakly, her face bruised and bloody and her sweater torn. The man holding her has one hand wrapped around her throat and the other fumbling with his fly, and it’s like everything around Gold goes still and quiet, like he’s in a dream, things moving too fast and too slow at the same time. 

He doesn’t even remember drawing his weapon, but it’s suddenly in his hand, and he’s across the room before he realizes it, pressing the muzzle of his gun to the head of the bastard with his hands around Belle’s neck.

“Let her go,” Gold grits out, tightening his hands on the gun so hard he's surprised the grip doesn't crack.

The man freezes, letting Belle fall from his grasp. When she hits the floor she stumbles a little, hunching over and taking these deep gasping breaths, like she’s trying to get more air into her lungs. The man -- Gaston, Gold knows, it’s fucking _Gaston_ \-- stays right where he is.

“Turn around,” Gold says. Gaston doesn’t move, and Gold cocks the gun, the metallic sound loud as it echoes through the bare apartment. “ _Now._ ”

Gaston flinches and turns, his movements slow and deliberate. There’s a bloody, jagged gash high on his cheek -- fresh, from the looks of it -- and Gold feels a surge of pride. He hopes Belle made the bastard scream. He keeps the gun on Gaston, looking him up and down, sizing up the man who thinks he owns Belle. He's enormous, a hulking brute with dull, dark eyes, and his shirt is covered in what must be Belle's blood. When Gold notices Gaston's pants are unzipped, his dick still half-hard in his undone fly, a spike of cold, blind rage runs through him. He whips the gun hard across Gaston's face, the barrel connecting with the still-bleeding cut on his cheek, opening it up even more.

Gaston groans and, beside him, Belle flinches, shrinking closer to the wall. It takes Gold a moment to realizes he's scaring her, so he takes a slow, deep breath, willing himself to calm down.

He keeps his gun trained on Gaston as he glances at Belle, getting his first good look at her. Jesus Christ. She looks terrible, covered in blood and bruises, one whole side of her face purple and swollen. 

She's crying, tears streaking down her dirty, bruised face, and Gold has to make a conscious effort not to keep his gun on Gaston. All he wants to do is run to her and cover her up, to hold her and protect her and tell her everything will be alright. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm and gentle, trying not to frighten her.

“She’s fine,” Gaston sneers, and Gold hits him in the face with the gun again, hard enough that Gaston stumbles, landing hard on his knees, blood running down his face. 

“I didn’t ask you,” Gold says through clenched teeth. 

Belle still hasn’t said anything, and her eyes look glassy and unfocused. Jesus Christ. He can’t believe how quickly everything has fallen to hell. It was only a few hours ago that they were sharing a cup of tea in his kitchen. 

“Belle?” he says gently, waiting until she glances up at him. "Are you okay?" 

She nods, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, smearing blood across her lip. “Yeah,” she says, but he can barely hear her, her voice raspy and low. Her neck looks horrible, and he can make out the marks from where Gaston had his fingers wrapped around her throat, red slashes that mar the pale white of her skin.

But Gold gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile and holds his bandaged hand out to her, gesturing for her to move away from Gaston. “Come on over here, love.”

Belle bites down on her swollen lip as she crosses her arms tight across her body. She takes one tentative step, her eyes flickering over to Gaston like she’s worried he’s going to stop her. Well, if the bastard tries, Gold’s certainly got a solution. 

Her sweater’s on the ground near her feet and she picks it up, trying to cover herself up with it before she makes her way over to Gold. But it’s all ripped and shredded and her hands are shaking, and the shirt keeps falling from her fingers. Eventually, she manages to get the shirt draped over her shoulders, and she starts walking over to Gold, moving in a wide arc like she’s trying to keep as much distance between her and Gaston as possible. 

Gaston’s glaring at her, giving her a cold, angry look, and Gold wants to kill him, wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything else. But he thinks Belle might already be in shock, and he’s pretty sure that shooting a man in the head right in front of her will do more harm than good. No matter how much the bastard deserves to die.

“Don’t look at her,” Gold orders instead. 

Gaston smirks, turning his head to look deliberately over at Belle, so Gold slams the butt of his pistol against the other man’s temple, smiling coldly when Gaston cries out in pain. 

“That’s looking, dearie,” Gold says, still smiling as Gaston spits a mouthful of blood on the ground. Something solid clinks against the floor, and it only takes a second for Gold to realize it’s a tooth.

“Who the fuck _are_ you, old man?” Gaston asks, slurring through the blood. 

Gold grins, a wild, dangerous feeling coursing through him. “I’m the fucking guy with a fucking gun to your head,” he says, pressing the muzzle against Gaston’s forehead for emphasis. “I’m the guy,” he continues. “Who’s going to kill you.”

Gaston swallows hard, his eyes darting between Gold and Belle, looking around like he’s trying to figure out a way to escape. “Listen,” he says, licking a spot of blood off his lip. “Why don’t we just call it even, okay? Belle’s fine, she said so herself.”

Next to him, Belle is looking anything but fine. She’s got her torn sweater clutched to her chest and one of her eyes is black and completely swollen shut. She can't seem to stop shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells him, staring at the floor and holding the ripped scrap of fabric even tighter to her chest.

“Oh no,” he says, feeling as though he’s failed her in some way. How could she possibly think he’d be angry with her? “No, it’s alright, love, it’s okay.”

He reaches out to her with his bandaged hand, his attention flicking away from Gaston to give her a soft, understanding smile. 

His eyes only leave the other man for a second, but it’s apparently enough, because all of a sudden, Gaston’s moving, charging Gold and ramming his head into Gold’s stomach and slamming him to the ground.

Gold hits the ground hard, Gaston on top of him, the air rushing out of his lungs and the gun falling out of his hand. He tries to grab for it, but it's out of reach, skittering across the floor towards Belle.

The gun’s just out of his reach, but Gold can’t get it, Gaston pummeling away at him, hitting him in the face, so Gold has to focus his attention on fighting back, trying to push the larger man’s weight off him. But he can’t get much leverage, and he’s only got one hand to fight with. 

It’s not too long before Gaston gets the upper hand, taking advantage of Gold’s injury, kneeling on his bandaged hand, grinding all of his weight down until Gold cries out in pain. Gaston smiles and wraps his hands around Gold’s throat, choking him just as he was Belle only a few minutes before.

When the gun goes off, it’s deafening, both Gold and Gaston wincing reflexively as the sound echoes loud around the apartment. A chunk of plaster falls down and Gaston whips around, letting go of Gold, both of them staring at Belle in shock. 

She’s got the gun, and she’s pointing it at Gaston, her hands shaking so badly Gold’s a bit worried she’s going to shoot him by accident. 

He takes the opportunity to move away from Gaston, pushing himself to his feet, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out when his broken hand brushes the floor. Belle’s not looking at him at all, just staring steadily at Gaston, her ripped sweater draped haphazardly across her chest.

“Belle,” Gaston says, his voice low and angry. He takes a step towards her, and Belle tightens her grip on the gun, her knuckles bone white against the grip. 

“Don’t,” she says, her voice flat. 

Gaston smirks. “You going to shoot me, whore?” he says, but he doesn’t move any closer to her.

Belle nods. “Yes,” she says simply. 

Gaston blinks, the smirk falling from his lips. She’s holding the gun more steadily now, but her arms are trembling and Gold’s more than a little worried about what may happen

Gold walks over to her, careful to give them a wide berth. When he gets to where she is, he reaches out very slowly, resting his hand over hers, his palm warm and solid on her hands. “Belle?” he says. “How about you give me the gun, sweetheart?”

Belle shakes her head, tightening her grip on the pistol and holding it steady on Gaston. “He took my ring,” she tells Gold, and her voice cracks a little.

“We’ll get it back,” he says soothingly. “Just...” he says, keeping his hands over hers, pulling gently on the gun. “Just...let go of the gun, alright?”

Belle glances at him with her one good eye, keeping the gun on Gaston. She looks horrible, bruised and bloody, but he can see defiance behind her eyes, and he smiles.

“We’ll get it back,” he says again, a promise.

She blinks and then lets go of the gun, her shoulders slumping as he takes it from her. 

The gun is solid and heavy in his hands, and he’s got it pressed up against Gaston’s forehead before the other man seems to register what’s happening. 

“Give the lady back her ring,” Gold says, and Gaston's right hand twitches. It takes a moment before Gold realizes why -- that the asshole has Belle’s ring on his finger, the blue and silver glittering ridiculously on his thick, rough hands.

Gold steps on Gaston’s hand, pressing his foot down until something cracks, and Gaston howls, writhing in pain.

"Take it," he begs, crying out again when Gold grinds his heel down harder. 

Gold doesn’t move his foot, just reaches down and pulls the ring off Gaston’s finger. There are small flecks of brown-red blood spattered across the blue stone, and Gold tries to wipe them away before handing it back to Belle with his bandaged hand.

“Here you are, my dear,” he says, not taking his eyes away from Gaston, pressing the muzzle of the gun against Gaston’s forehead.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice shaky and small as she takes the ring from him. Gold steps off of Gaston's hand and the other man pulls his arm in close to his body, cradling his mangled fingers against his chest.

“She’s a whore, you know,” Gaston says conversationally, sneering through the blood. “That’s all she’ll ever be.” 

Belle’s face crumples, like even after all she's been through tonight this is the worst yet, and something in Gold snaps. He’s not sure how many times he hits Gaston, slamming his gun over and over again into the other man’s face, but he doesn’t stop until he feels Belle touch his shoulder, reaching out and holding onto him, jerking him out of whatever violent trance he’s in. 

She’s trembling, her fingers shaky as she tries to grab his shoulder. “Stop,” she whispers, looking down at him with something like horror. “Please, Rum. Please stop.”

He blinks at her. Gaston’s on the floor, his face a bloody mess, but he’s still breathing, these wet, rattling gasps that make his chest heave. Gold’s still holding his gun, though the grip has gone slick from the blood, and his fingers ache.

“I never want to see you again,” he hisses. “I want you to get in your car and drive away from this town forever. And if you don't, if you stay -- or if you ever try to contact Belle again -- I will find you, and I will kill you,” he says, pressing the gun against Gaston’s bloody lip. "Do you understand?"

Gaston moans and tries to roll away, his body curling up into a ball.

Gold keeps the gun on the other man, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “What’d you say, dearie? Do we have a deal?”

Gaston nods, blood spattering across the floor from the gashes on his face.

Gold stands up slowly, keeping the gun on Gaston, and holding his other hand out to Belle. She takes it, her fingers cold in his, and then she tugs gently on his arm, pulling him towards the doorway. He lets her lead him away, not willing to turn his back on Gaston, despite the fact that the other man is curled on the floor in pain, his face coated in blood.

It’s not until they get out of the apartment that Gold gets a good look at Belle, taking in everything. 

One whole side of her face is a mess of blood and bruises. Her left eye is completely closed, the skin a shiny purplish-black. The finger-shaped marks around her neck are a dark, angry red, and she’s got one arm clutched tight against her chest, holding her destroyed shirt against her bare chest. 

He slides his jacket off and drapes it around her shoulders, the gesture seeming useless and inadequate. She puts her arms through the sleeves, not making eye contact with him, and then starts to work on the buttons, her fingers so shaky that it takes her three tries before she manages to get everything lined up. She’s got dried blood on her fingers, and her skin is so pale it’s almost blue.

"Belle?" he says, feeling completely helpless. "You sure you're okay, dear?"

She nods vaguely, but she's still not looking at him and she's starting shivering, her whole body shaking violently. He reaches out to her, but she flinches and it takes him a second to realize it's because he's still holding the gun. Shit. He slides it back into the holster and then tries to wipe some of the blood off his hand. 

He's about to ask her if she needs to go to the hospital, when she glances up at him. She's started crying again, and the tears make messy tracks through the blood drying on her face. "Can we go home now?" she asks, and the tremble in her voice makes his chest hurt. 

"Of course," he says, reaching out to wrap one arm gently around her. She leans into him, and he lets out a shaky sigh of relief. "Let's get you home."

Belle leans on him the walk down the old staircase, moving in a way that tells Gold she's probably even more bruised up than she looks. Every couple of seconds a tremor racks her body, so Gold makes sure to go slow, being incredibly gentle with her.

She doesn't say anything on the walk down the stairs, and her breathing is quick and shallow. He's a little worried she's going into shock. Her one good eye looks lifeless and dull, and her skin is clammy and cold. But she is still moving, and once they get to the alley behind the library, she wraps one arm around his waist, pulling him close to her.

When they get back out to the street, there are still a couple of girls standing around on the corner, looking very young and cold in their too-short skirts. When they see him with Belle, they turn away disinterestedly, all of them apparently unconcerned with the beat-up young woman in his arms. Jesus Christ. He should have killed Gaston when he had the chance.

Belle ducks when she sees them, turning her head down and pressing her cheek against Gold's chest.

He looks away from the other girls and back down at Belle, pulling her closer against him. She whimpers quietly when he does, and he eases up a little, pressing a soft kiss against the crown of her head as they make their way slowly across the street to his car.

*

The ride back to his apartment is slow, and Gold keeps his bandaged hand clutching Belle's for the entire drive.

From the way she's holding herself and the shallow, labored sound of her breathing, he thinks she may be even more hurt than she seemed at first, and Gold forces himself not to think of what Gaston might have done to her before he got there, how badly she's actually injured under all the blood and torn clothing.

He should probably be bringing her to the hospital, but she asked him to bring her home, so that's where they're going.

She holds onto his hand tightly, her trembling fingers cool and sticky with blood. His arm feels like it's on fire, the pain almost unbearable after the fight with Gaston, but Gold doesn't care. All he cares about it making sure that Belle's okay, that she knows he's there for her, that he's never letting her go.


	17. Belle (part 8)

The drive to Rum’s apartment feels like it doesn’t take any time at all. It's like one second Belle’s standing outside of the library, and then the next, Rum’s opening her car door and helping her up the stairs to his place.

For some reason, she can’t stop shaking. Even with Rum’s jacket wrapped around her and buttoned all the way to the top, her whole body feels like it’s covered in ice, like she’s never going to be warm again.

She leans heavily on him, her whole body just a mess of pain and bruises, and the walk upstairs seems to go on forever. Every time she breathes, it feels like she’s being stabbed, and she’s pretty sure at least a couple of her ribs are broken from when Gaston kicked her. 

Once they get inside, he hesitates for just a second, like he’s not sure exactly what to do next. Belle wishes she could tell him, but she’s concentrating very hard on trying to stop the tremors. She wishes she knew how to stop; she’s got his jacket wrapped around her and he kept the heater on full blast the entire drive home, but just. She’s just very, very cold. 

Finally, Rum guides her in the direction of the bathroom, talking to her the whole time, telling her they’re going to get her fixed up, telling her to just hold on, telling her that everything is going to be all right. Belle finds that hard to believe, but she appreciates it anyway. 

In the bathroom, he flicks on the overhead light, and all of a sudden Belle feels like she might throw up. It’s just so _bright_. She whimpers, pressing her face against Rum’s shirt, swallowing hard and closing her eyes as tight as she can. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, like this is somehow his fault instead of hers. “I’m sorry.”

He reaches over with his good one to flip down the lid on the toilet before helping her to sit down. Belle’s eyes are still closed and she tries to concentrate on breathing normal, on not throwing up, and after just a moment, she hears the quick click of the lightswitch, and the sickening orange behind her eyelids is replaced by a solid, soothing grey. 

“Better?” he asks, and Belle nods faintly, not trusting herself to be able to talk yet. Once she’s pretty sure she’s not going to be sick, she opens her eyes slowly, squinting into the dim light of the bathroom with her one good eye. 

She watches in silence as Rum fills the cup next to the toothbrushes with water from the tap and then opens the medicine cabinet, pulling out the little orange prescription bottle of Vicodin the hospital gave him for his hand. He shakes out two pills and takes one of them, wincing a little as he swallows. 

He holds the last one out to her, and she takes it, washing it down with the water from the sink. It hurts to swallow, her throat painful from where Gaston held her, but she knows it’ll probably be worth it once the drugs kick in. 

“Thank you,” she says, her voice so rough and quiet she can hardly hear it herself. He nods, looking concerned as he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, touching her so softly she can barely feel it.

Belle closes her eyes and listens to him rustling around under the sink and then turning on the faucet again.

“Belle?” he says sounding worried, and she blinks her eyes open as best she can, squinting at him. He’s kneeling down in front of her, holding a damp washcloth. “Stay awake for me, okay sweetheart?”

She starts to nod, but it just makes her head hurt worse. “Okay,” she whispers instead, trying to keep her eyes open, to focus on him. She’s started to feel cold again, and she tucks her hands up inside the sleeves of his jacket, curling her fingers up against her palms. 

“I’m just going to...” he says, and reaches up to gently wipe at her face with the cloth. He starts on the side that doesn’t hurt as badly, cleaning the blood and dirt of her face with soft, sure strokes. When he pulls the washcloth away from her face, it’s filthy, and Belle watches as he runs it under the faucet again, the water running off it a dark, dull pink.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath and reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “This might hurt a little, love.”

Belle nods. The painkiller must be starting to kick in because the motion barely makes her feel sick at all. Even so, when Rum presses the washcloth gently against the bruised side of her face, Belle flinches, hissing in pain. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice low as he wipes the cloth gently against her temple, cleaning up the blood that’s crusted around her hairline. He keeps whispering apologies to her as he works on her face, telling her he's sorry if it hurts, that it'll feel better soon, that he's almost finished.

Belle keeps her eyes closed as he works, trying to concentrate on the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin against hers. She doesn't think about earlier, about Gaston's hands around her neck or the slick, heavy weight of the gun in her hands. 

By the time Rum’s finished cleaning up her face, she can hardly feel anything, the pain taking on a kind of soft, hazy edge. 

Now that the blood’s gone, she can open her bruised eye enough to see out of it again, and she watches Rum as he tosses the stained washcloth on the counter and then leans back down to start unlacing her boots. 

It’s slow-going since he’s only able to use one of his hands. The fingers on his broken hand look even worse, black and purple beneath his cast, and he’s got a busted lip and a spattering of blood on his face, an ugly brownish red against the silvery stubble on his cheeks. 

It’s all because of her, she knows. The broken hand and the bruised face and all of the blood -- none of this would have happened to him if she hadn’t run off, if she'd just stayed home in bed like she was supposed to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking. She wishes that she could stop shaking, wishes that she hadn’t fucked things up so badly by letting Gaston find her, wishes that she had never left the apartment this morning.

“For what?” he asks. He looks legitimately surprised, his eyes wide with confusion.

“This is all my fault,” she says. She’s started crying again, the tears trailing hot down her cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart, no,” he says, shaking his head. He’s got his good hand resting on her knee, solid and comforting. “It’s not your fault, Belle. None of this is your fault, okay? You understand that, don’t you love?”

Belle doesn’t say anything to that, just swallows hard and looks down at her lap, watching as the tears fall onto her jeans, leaving dark spots on the dirt-streaked denim. 

“It's just...” she starts, the tears falling faster now and her face feels hot with shame. “I just thought if I went out there, and people saw me...I just didn’t want you to get in trouble,” she finishes lamely, and it sounds so pathetic and dumb, especially now after everything that’s happened. 

He would have killed Gaston, she knows, and then...god, she can’t even think about what then. 

“Oh, Belle,” he says, leaning over to press a soft kiss against the top of her head. He lingers there for a couple of seconds, his lips warm against the unbearable coldness of her skin, and then ghosts his lips over her bruised temple and then her swollen cheek, dropping feather-light kisses along all of the spots where Gaston hit her. 

When he stands up, he pulls her up with him, holding her steady against him, his hands feel big and solid and warm even through the thick fabric of the jacket. 

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and she flinches without meaning to, that whole side of her face still painful and tender. Rum jerks his hand back, curling his fingers against his palm, and this whole thing is so absurdly unfair.

But after just a second, he reaches out for her again, moving slowly and carefully as he starts to unbutton her jacket. Belle wants to help him, but her hands are still shaky, so she just stands there until he's sliding the coat off her shoulders and then she shrugs the jacket down her arms. 

When Rum gets a look at her without the jacket, he exhales heavily, leaning over and bracing his hands on his knees like he's just been punched. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, scrubbing a hand across his face.

Belle glances down at herself and winces. Her whole left side is black and blue, dark bruises blossoming against her skin. When she looks back up at him, his face is hard, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. He looks like he did back at the library, when he had the gun pressed against Gaston’s forehead and his finger resting on the trigger.

“Rum?” Belle says, taking a quick, unconscious tep away from him, her back nudging painfully against the counter. He’s still got that look on his face, like he wants to destroy something, and Belle reaches out and puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Rum?”

He blinks, looking back up at her face. “We should...” he starts, but his voice comes out strange, tight and angry. He clears his throat and gives her a soft smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, but at least he’s not looking like he was before. “We should get you cleaned up.”

Belle just nods, swallowing hard. What she really wants is to go to bed, but her hair is still a little tacky with blood, and her knees are all scraped and dirty from when Gaston pushed her down. She waits as Rum turns on the faucet in the shower, and then she braces her hand on his shoulder as she kicks off her jeans, trying not to trip over the snow-damp cuffs. 

Once she’s naked, the shivering gets a lot worse, but the bathroom’s already filling up with steam from the water, and Belle moves as quickly as she can towards the shower, desperate to get warm. When she steps into the shower, she slips, but Rum’s right behind her and he catches her before she hits the tile. 

“Okay?” he asks, once she’s steady on her feet again. He looks very tired, dark circles shadowed under his eyes.

“Yeah,” Belle says shakily, nodding for just second before the dizziness hits her again. She didn't take the ring off her finger, and she stares at it as she tries to get her bearings. “I’m just, um...do you think you could come in with me?”

“Of course,” he says, sounding relieved and giving her a soft smile. He shucks off his clothes while Belle steps under the water, the heat of the water almost painful against her cold, bruised skin. 

“Your hand,” she says, blinking at him through the steam. He's got one foot in the tub, the water from the shower splashing onto his cast. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, snatching his arm away from the water and holding it outside of the shower curtain, getting the bandage out of the way before it gets too wet. “I’ll be right back, okay?” 

Belle nods, keeping her hand pressed against the tile wall, concentrating on holding herself upright. The bathroom is filling with steam and the water is very hot, and she takes the couple of minutes while Rum’s gone to try and get herself together.

It feels like every single bone in her body is broken, and she can’t seem to stop crying, these quiet, steady tears falling down her cheeks. She’s not sure why it’s like this; tonight wasn’t all that different from other nights she’s spent -- better, in some ways, since Rum got there before Gaston could really do anything to her. But it felt different tonight, worse, somehow. Almost as bad as that first night when Ruby found her bleeding and used up in the alley behind the library.

It’s just...things are different now, and it’s like they can’t _not_ be different. These past couple of weeks with Rum have changed everything; it’s like she knows now that things don’t have to be like they were. That she’s worth more than twenty dollar blow jobs in the snow. 

She’s still thinking about all of this when she hears Rum come back into the bathroom, and she opens her eyes again, blinking into the steam. When he pulls back the shower curtain, he’s naked except for a plastic shopping bag wrapped tightly around his bandaged hand; it looks strange and out of place next to the tan smoothness of his body and Belle can’t help but laugh, this almost hysterical feeling bubbling up in her chest. 

“Perhaps not the most attractive solution,” he tells her as he steps in next to her, smiling wryly. “But it’ll do.” 

The shower is small and cramped with both of them in there, but Belle doesn’t mind at all. She just stands under the hot spray, leaning against Rum. He’s still being very careful with her, and he washes her hair and then soaps her whole body up, being particularly careful of all the bruises. 

Once she’s as clean as she’s going to get, Rum wraps his arms around her, holding her close to him, skin to skin. The plastic around his cast crinkles uncomfortably against her bruised skin, but Belle barely even notices.

“I was so worried about you,” he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear him over the running water.

Belle scrunches her eyes closed and slides her arms around his back, holding him so close that it hurts her bruised skin, but not caring at all. She presses her face against the crook of his neck, and he starts to rub her back in these gentle, soft circles and suddenly she’s sobbing, crying so hard she can hardly breathe.

She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her; the stuff that happened to her today wasn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to her -- not even close -- but somehow it all seems so much worse when she’s with Rum, when he’s holding her and rubbing her back and making quiet, soothing noises as he hugs her to him.

They just stand there like that until the water turns cold, both of them clinging desperately to each other. Belle’s crying has finally tapered off, and she just feels exhausted, like she's coming down from a high, the adrenaline rush wearing off and leaving her feel tired and wrung out.

After they both get out of the shower and wrapped in clean towels, Rum leads Belle back to the bedroom, grabbing them both shirts and sweatpants to wear to bed. 

Under the plastic, his bandage is still mostly dry, but the fingers on that hand look horrible, this terrible blackish-purple color. But he doesn’t even mention it, just crawls into bed beside her, lying next to her so that they’re face to face. 

Part of her can't believe how helpless she's acting, making Rum clean her up and tuck her into bed like she's a child. It's just that she's so tired and she's had a really rough night and it's just...it's really nice to have someone taking care of her for a change.

“Thank you,” Belle says. “Thank you for...” she trails off, feeling her face get hot, her eyes burning with tears. Now that everything’s quiet and she’s cleaned up and the pain isn’t so bad, it all kind of hits her at once, what he must have seen when he got to the library tonight, the way Gaston had his hands all over her, the new sweater he bought her ripped and dirty and in rags. 

Rum closes his eyes, like he can't bear to look at her. “I should have been there sooner,” he says, shaking his head a little. It’s dark in the room, but there’s enough moonlight filtering in through the blinds that Belle can see the damage from his fight with Gaston. The blood is gone from his face, but he’s still got a bruised cheek and a busted lip. “I should have gotten there before that bastard...”

Belle reaches up to trace the line of the bruise on his cheek with her finger tips. He closes his eyes when she does, and she takes the opportunity to press a soft kiss against the corner his mouth.

He tastes like blood and soap, and when he blinks his eyes open to look at her again, his pupils are so dilated his eyes are almost black. 

She feels loose-limbed from the shower and the painkillers are making everything seem kind of hazy and unreal, like none of this is actually happening, like it's all just a dream. “I love you,” she tells him, the words out of her mouth before she has time to think about them.

Rum blinks. “Oh, Belle. I...” he trails off. He’s looking at her sadly, like he’s trying to figure out a way to say what he wants to say without hurting her.

Oh god, what is she doing? Of course he doesn’t love her, couldn’t love her. She's...what she is, and she hates how he keeps making her forget that, how he's so kind and gentle with her, touching her sweetly and softly, like he actually could love her. If, well. If she weren't just a whore. 

Belle shakes her head, rolling over so that her back is to him, tears falling fast and hot down her face. He moves over until he’s pressed up against her back, and he slides an arm around her waist, touching her very carefully, all of his movements soft and gentle. He fits nicely against her back, and she can feel the brush of his lips below her ear and it’s not fair how much she really does love him, how simple and right and wonderful everything feels when they’re together. 

“It’s okay,” she says, her throat feels like it’s closing up, like it’s hard to breathe. Even though his arm is resting on her bad side, he's being so careful that it doesn't even hurt. That makes this even worse, somehow. “I know it’s not...that you don’t...it’s okay.”

“Belle,” he says, voice still quiet and sad. She can feel the warmth of his breath, the way it shakes a little when he talks, puffing against her cheek. 

Belle doesn’t move, keeping her back to him, but he reaches down and takes hold of her hand, threading his fingers through hers and squeezing gently, tugging a little until she relents and rolls over to face him again.

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, stroking his thumb across her cheekbone, his fingers gentle against her bruised skin. “I love you, too, Belle,” he says once she's looking at him again, and Belle feels like her heart just stops. 

He sounds sincere, like he really means it, and Belle searches his face in the dark. "You do?" she asks, and it's stupid how hopeful she sounds.

"Aye," he says, and she can just make out that he's smiling at her, the right corner of his mouth curled up. "I do." 

She smiles. It makes the whole left side of her face stretch painfully, but she can't seem to stop as she slides over closer to him, curling up so that she's on top of him, her head tucked under his chin. He leans down and kisses the top of her head, smoothing the hair away from her face. 

"I love you," he says again, and Belle can't stop smiling, cuddling closer to him and letting the steady beat of his heart lull her into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	18. Gold (part 9)

Gold barely sleeps. Even with the painkillers, his broken hand is throbbing, the pain bright and intense, a constant reminder of Gaston and his particular brand of brutality. 

He should have killed the bastard when he had the chance, and more than once during the night he has to force himself not to get up, his mind racing as he pours over every horrible detail, thinking of all the things he could have done differently, how much worse things had gone if he'd gotten there just a few minutes later... 

The only way he’s able to make himself stay in bed is by holding Belle even closer to him, pressing his cheek against the crown of her head, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of her hair. 

By the time the grey pre-dawn light starts creeping through his windows, Gold’s given up all pretense of sleep. Beside him, Belle's breathing is deep but labored, and Gold thinks again about Gaston’s hands wrapped around her pale throat, choking the life out of her. He unconsciously tightens his arm around Belle, and she makes a quiet whimpering sound deep in her throat. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers, soft enough so he doesn’t wake her up. He presses a soft kiss against her temple loosens his grip on her, forcing himself to relax. When he does, Belle immediately moves closer to him, throwing one leg over his and pressing her nose into his chest, right above his heart.

Gold smoothes a hand through her hair, promising himself that he’s never, ever going to let her get hurt again.

*

It’s late by the time Belle wakes up, the room filled with bright morning sunlight. 

Her face looks even worse than it did last night, the bruises a horrible, deep purplish-black. She blinks up at him sleepily, her left eye still not opening all the way. 

“Hi,” she says, giving him a soft, sleepy smile. 

“Hey.” He kisses her gently on the forehead, being careful of the bruises. “How’re you feeling?”

She shrugs, the borrowed t-shirt slipping down off her shoulder, revealing a patch of white, unbruised skin. “I’ve been better,” she says, her voice raspy from both the sleep and the bruising. “And worse.”

“Oh Belle,” he says sadly. He wishes she wouldn’t say things like that, wishes she couldn’t say things like that, wishes he could just erase all of the horrible things that have ever happened to her. 

She just shrugs again, and he thinks of her that day when he first met her, standing with the other girls on the corner, not running from him, smiling at him and talking to him about Hemingway. Gold thinks she may be the bravest person he’s ever met.

“Do you have to go to work?” she asks sleepily, tilting her head up to look at him and then wincing a little when she stretches her neck wrong. 

He shakes his head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m yours for the day.” 

The truth is, he thought about going in, thought about filing a report on Gaston -- maybe finding some old charge, some outstanding warrant, a goddamn unpaid parking ticket, something that he could pin on him without involving Belle -- that would justify Gold hunting him down, making sure he left town like he promised he would. But the truth is, he can’t bring himself to leave Belle. He thinks about their conversation from the other night, if she really would leave with him if he asked her to. 

He’s still thinking about it when Belle shifts beside him, moving so that she’s half on top of him, pressing soft kisses against his jaw. 

“Belle?” he says, his voice coming out low and breathless. 

“Hmmm?” she murmurs, wiggling a little so that she can lick at a spot below his ear. Gold gasps, closing his eyes as she slides one hand down his chest, her skin almost searingly hot through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

She keeps touching him, and it takes Gold a couple of seconds to get it together enough to find his voice again. 

“Belle,” he says, more firmly this time. It’s just -- she should be resting. She’s still hurt, the bruises dark and ugly against her smooth white skin. He should be taking care of her, not taking advantage of her. “Sweetheart, stop.”

She freezes when he says it, one hand flat on his chest, her face just millimeters from his. “What’s wrong?” she asks, looking worried. “Is it your hand?” She glances down at where his bandaged hand is resting gently against her thigh. 

“No,” he says, smiling softly at her. Here she is, her face a mess of black and blue, asking if he’s okay. “My hand is fine, love.”

“So what is it?” she says, scraping her nails lightly against his chest and rolling her hips against his. 

“Sweetheart...” he says, not sure exactly how to phrase it. It’s just that it hasn’t been that long since last night and the things that happened to her...Gold doesn’t want to take advantage of her vulnerability. “It’s not that I don’t want to...”

She laughs bitterly. “Right,” she says, taking her hand away from his chest and moving so she’s not touching him at all. “I’m sure you’re just dying to be with a whore like me.”

“Stop that,” he snaps, harsher than he means to.

Belle flinches, looking hurt. Gold closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“I want to be with you,” he tells her, keeping his voice soft, trying to make her understand. “I do.”

She just shakes her head, disbelieving, and rolls over onto her back, staring obstinately at the ceiling.

“It’s just...you’re hurt, and you should rest.” He reaches out and puts a tentative arm on her shoulder, but she shrugs it away. 

“I don’t need to _rest,_ ” she says, raising her voice, sounding angry, like the suggestion that she should take it easy after what happened to her last night is somehow incredibly offensive. “What I do need,” she adds, turning back onto her side so that she can glare at him. “Is for everyone to stop telling me what to do.”

“Of course, love,” he tells her, not sure sure what else to say. He wants to give her everything she wants, but. He's just not sure this is what she needs right now.

“I want to do this,” she announces. “I want to be with you. And I don’t need for you to protect me.”

She looks at him through the curtain of her hair, eyes bright and blue and dazzling despite the bruises.

She pulls her shirt off and she’s naked above him, and, Christ, her whole left side is just one giant bruise, a mess of purple and black blossoming beneath the skin. Just looking at it makes him wince, but he reaches up with his bandaged hand and ghosts his fingers over her torso, trailing his fingers against the stark lines of her ribcage. The skin there is hot to the touch, warm beneath the bruises.

Above him, Belle's watching him closely. “Okay?” she says, almost defiantly, not flinching away from his touch, even when his fingertips brush against an angry cut below her collarbone.

He nods, waiting to see what she’ll do next. She leans down and kisses him again, biting him less-than-gently on his jaw. It’s a good hurt, though, and he gasps as she works her teeth against the sensitive skin of his neck.

She moves from his jaw down his throat, nipping at his skin and tracing the pulse point below his ear with her tongue. Gold can't stop touching her, being careful with the bruises, moving his hands over her insistently.

Belle kneels above him, her knees on either side of his hips, and he looks up into the bright blue of her eyes. She's biting her lip in concentration, pulling his shirt off and then running her hands lightly over his body. 

He watches her watch him, looking her in the eye, and reaching out to thread the fingers of his good hand through hers. “I love you, Belle,” he tells her, feeling like he can’t say it enough, like he’ll never be able to say it enough. 

She goes still above him, her eyes bright as bites down on her lip. “Why?” she asks, sounding legitimately confused. 

There are more reasons than he could possibly say, so he doesn't bother, just leans up and kisses her trying to show her what he can't quite figure out how to say.

*

They spend most of the day in bed, both of them drifting in and out of sleep, until Gold’s phone rings, the sound loud and grating in the peaceful quiet of his bedroom.

He doesn’t recognize the number on the caller ID, and he gets a sinking feeling in his stomach as he answers. 

“Detective Gold?” a girl says, her voice vaguely familiar. 

“Yes?” 

“It’s Ruby,” the girl says, sounding nervous. 

“Ruby,” he repeats, feeling strangely relieved. Behind him, he feels Belle slide closer to him, and he turns around and gives her a small shrug. “What can I do for you, dearie?”

“Is Belle with you?” she asks, still sounding unsure.

“Yes,” he says, not bothering to hide it any longer. After last night, he plans on Belle always being with him, so he figures it matters little if her friends know where she is. 

“Oh thank god,” Ruby says, sounding relieved. “Can I talk to her?”

“Just a moment,” Gold tells her, turning around and handing the phone to Belle. She takes it from him with a small smile, and Gold gets up and throws his boxers and t-shirt back on before heading out the living room, giving Belle and her friend a chance to talk. 

*

When Belle comes out of the bedroom, she’s dressed, wearing her old, ripped up jeans and one of his dress shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. 

“Planning on going somewhere?” he asks lightly, strangely worried about what Ruby might have said to her. 

“Maybe,” she says, biting on her lip like she’s nervous, which in turn makes him nervous. Christ, what did Ruby say to her? “Do you think you could drive me to Ruby’s place?”

"Of course," he says, feeling almost absurdly relieved. “Any reason in particular?”

When he turns around, Belle’s right next to him, a small smile on her bruised face. “I’m not leaving,” she tells him. “I just want to pick up some of my things.”

“In that case,” he says. “Let’s go.”

*

Belle holds his hand the entire way to Ruby’s, her fingers soft against his bruised skin. When he looks down at her hand, he notices a greenish line, right beneath the band of her ring, dark and ugly against her skin. 

“It’s from the metal,” she says, and he looks back up quickly, focusing on the road. The last thing he needs is for them to die in a fiery crash because he’s examining every bruise on her body.

“Is it too tight?” he asks, even though he can see it’s not. It was the smallest size they had at the gift shop, but it’s clearly a couple of sizes too large.

“No, it’s just the metal,” she says again, and he shoots her a confused look. “You know,” she says. “Because of the fake gold?"

He raises his eyebrows in confusion. "Not that I mind,” she adds quickly, like she's afraid she's offended him. “It just...it’ll wash off.”

“Or we can just get you a real one,” he says, working hard to keep his tone light. 

But Belle’s grinning at him, even as she shakes her head. “You don’t need to do that,” she tells him, giving his hand a quick squeeze, and he decides then and there that he’s going to get her a new one -- a real one, the kind she deserves -- as soon as he can.

*

Ruby’s still staying at the crappy motel by the interstate, and Gold parks right outside her room, still feeling a little odd about bringing Belle here. 

But Belle needs to get her things, he knows, so he accompanies her to the door. When Ruby opens it, she practically launches herself at Belle, hugging her so tight that Belle winces. 

“Sorry,” Ruby says, grinning at Belle and then shooting Gold a slightly worried look. “You okay?”

Belle nods ruefully, rubbing one hand across the back of her neck. “Yeah,” she says. “I think I am now.” She glances at Gold when she says it, like he’s the reason things are okay, and he can’t stop himself from giving her a half smile. She reaches for Gold’s hand again, carding her fingers through his and giving his hand a small squeeze. 

Ruby watches them appraisingly, nodding at Gold in what looks suspiciously like approval. 

“Well,” he says, glancing around at the room. It’s kind of dingy, but there don’t seem to be any villains or the like lurking in the corners. “I’ve got some errands to run, and I’m sure you two’d like some time to talk.”

Belle starts to protest, but Ruby cuts her off. “We would actually,” she tells him. “Thanks.”

Before he leaves, Gold double checks that she has her phone. “You’ll call me if anything comes up?” he asks, and Belle nods.

“I’ll take good care of her, Detective,” Ruby tells him, crossing her arms over her chest and rolling her eyes, like it’s completely absurd that he might be worried about leaving her alone here after everything that’s happened.

Belle must sense some of what he’s feeling, because she gives him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine,” she tells him, and he nods, giving her a gentle kiss on the cheek.

*

Gold heads to the library first, determined to make sure Gaston upheld his end of their deal. And if he didn’t, well. It’s not like Gold would be crushed if he had to kill the man. 

But the library is deserted when he gets there, and the musty caretaker’s apartment where he found Belle last night is empty and abandoned. 

He considers calling the station, seeing if anyone there has heard anything, but he figures if Gaston had gone to the police, Sheriff Swan wouldn’t be shy about hauling Gold in. 

He knows there are plenty of places in Storybrooke for Gaston to hide out in, but it’s already getting late and he’s got one more stop before he picks up Belle, and he figures that should take precedent over the possibility of hunting down a man who should already be gone. 

*

The jewelry store is actually rather busy, filled with shoppers standing at almost every glass case. The store smells vaguely of cinnamon and there's music playing softly from somewhere near the back, a song that sounds vaguely familiar. After just a few moments, he recognizes it -- "Jingle Bells," of all things -- and he realizes with a slight shock that it'll be Christmas soon. It's been years since he's had any reason at all to care about the holiday, and it's strange, knowing that he'll have Belle with him this year.

Gold dodges his way through the crowds of shoppers, making his way determinedly over to the case with they keep the rings. There are dozens of them, the selection a bit more overwhelming than he was prepared for, and he suddenly longs for the hospital gift shop again. But he takes his time examining the rings, determined to find the perfect one for Belle.

Everything is so bright and sparkling, these huge diamonds that he can’t imagine Belle actually liking. It takes him rather longer than he had planned, but eventually, he finds what he’s looking for. 

It’s a simple enough ring, just a plain gold band and a solitary stone, but the bright, dazzling blue of the sapphire is the precise color of Belle’s eyes and it looks similar enough to the ring he got for her in the hospital that he thinks she’ll like it. 

As he leaves the shop, Gold tucks the ring into his jacket pocket, the light weight of it strangely comforting against him. 

*

When he pulls up to the motel, Belle and Ruby are standing outside Ruby’s room, looking very young as they lean into each other, talking and laughing and huddling together against the cold.

For just a moment, Belle looks so much like she did that first night, that his breath catches in his throat. But she sees his car and smiles and waves and she’s got a faded blue duffel bag in one hand and she’s getting into the car before he has a chance to get out and help her. 

She waves at Ruby as they drive away, giving the other girl a brilliant smile. She doesn’t stop until they’ve turned the corner and Ruby’s out of sight.

“Got everything you need?” he asks, nodding at the bag in her lap. It’s rather small for something that’s apparently holding all her worldly possessions, but Gold figures they can just buy her anything that she might need. A warm coat, for example, he thinks, noticing the slight bluish tinge of her fingertips. 

“Yep,” she says, holding her hands up in front of the heater vents and rubbing them together to get warm. Once she’s apparently defrosted enough, she takes his hand in hers again, like she’s can’t stop herself from touching him. “What about you? Get all your errands run?” 

“Indeed I did,” he says, glancing at her sidelong with a smile. 

Neither one of them say much on the drive back to his apartment. Gold’s feeling strangely nervous, his stomach flipping a little every time he notices the weight of the ring box in his pocket.

For her part, Belle just leans her forehead against the window, looking out at the ever-darkening streets of Storybrooke, a small smile on her face. The town has been decorated for Christmas, wreaths pinned to the lampposts and white, twinkling lights strung up in the shop windows. He's not sure how he hadn't noticed any of it before today, although he does suppose he's had other things on his mind.

By the time they get to his apartment, it's dark and the air has started to smell like snow. Belle holds his hand on the walk to the building, walking close enough to him that their shoulder keep bumping together.

When they get to the door, the first flurries of snow begin to fall, and Belle turns her face up to the sky, smiling a little as snowflakes land on her cheeks.

Gold has his keys in his hand, but he doesn't open the door, just stands there for a moment watching her. The snow has started to catch in her hair, and she looks almost ethereal in the soft glow of the moon.

“Everything okay?” she asks, looking back over at him. He's still just standing there, .

“Yes, of course,” Gold says. There are snowflakes in her eyelashes, glittering softly, and Gold thinks that she is quite possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the black velvet box and handing it to her.

“What’s this?” she asks, opening it. When she sees the ring, she freezes, her eyes huge. “Rum?” 

He’s not quite sure how to read her expression, if the confusion is a good thing or a bad thing and he feels a sudden surge of doubt, worried he’s pushing too hard, too fast. 

“It’s just...” he says, looking down at the ring, noticing for the first time that maybe it’s a bit ostentatious, a bit presumptuous. It’s one thing to get her a cheap trinket from a gift shop, but this, this means something. Which is precisely the point of course, but he’s suddenly worried that maybe she’s not ready for it to mean as much as it does. 

She still hasn’t said anything, just looks up at him, her eyes strangely bright.

“It doesn’t...” he starts again, wanting to explain it doesn’t need to mean more than she wants for it to, but she’s suddenly launching herself at him, throwing both her arms around him and pressing her face against his neck. 

“Thank you,” she says, her breath warm and sweet against his throat. A couple people passing by look at them curiously, but Gold can't bring himself to care.

“Do you like it then?” he asks, and she huffs out a laugh, her body shaking a little against his.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, pressing a kiss just below his jaw and then pulling back to look at him again. She takes the ring from the box before holding it out to him. 

He raises his eyebrows, and she smiles. “This is how it works, right?” she asks, biting down on her lip like she’s trying not to smile too wide. 

“Ah, of course,” he says, taking the ring from her. She holds out her hand, and he slides off her old ring, rubbing lightly at the grey-green mark on her finger. 

Belle grins at him when he puts it on her finger, not bothering to hide her smile anymore. It looks like a perfect fit, the delicate gold band fitting against her finger like it was made to go there. He was right about the stone -- it’s an exact match for the blue of her eyes -- and Gold holds her hand in his, before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, feeling for the first time in a very long time like everything is going to be all right.

**

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who kudos-ed and commented or even just lurked and read this story. There's no way I could have finished this without how awesome and supportive you guys were, and I just hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, so: Thank you guys! You're the best ♥


	19. Belle (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to [beeinyourbonnet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet) who asked for this prompt ("the day before their wedding") on tumblr -- Thanks, Bee!

“So,” Ruby asks, twirling one strand of bright-red hair around her finger and looking at Belle sidelong. “What are you guys going to do after?”

They’re sitting on the couch in Belle's and Rum’s apartment, Ruby's shiny red heels kicked up on the coffee table, the toe of her shoe resting right next to the marriage license, Belle’s and Rum’s names filled in carefully in the designated spots.

“After?” Belle repeats with a laugh, bumping her shoulder against Ruby’s and giving her a leer and a wink. “Do you really need me to answer that?”

“Ew.” Ruby bumps Belle back and gives an exaggerated shudder. “That’s not what I meant.”

Belle scoffs. “What do you mean ‘ew’?” she demands, her voice cracking with indignation. 

Ruby rolls her eyes. “Come on, Belle. It’s _Detective Gold._ ”

“Yeah, and?”

“And he’s a cop!”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Belle teases, giving her a rueful smile. 

Ruby just looks down at the table, shrugging a little, tracing one bright red fingernail along the line where she’s supposed to sign tomorrow after the ceremony. She looks so sad, all of a sudden, so alone, that Belle almost can't take it.

“Afterwards,” Belle says easily, going back to the original question. “We’re going to the airport, and then we’re going to Scotland.”

Ruby’s mouth twists up at the corner. “So that’s where he’s from, huh? ”

“Yeah,” Belle says. “That’s where he’s from.”

Ruby just nods, not saying anything for a while. She glances around the apartment, taking in all the boxes, everything basically already packed and ready to go. They’ve already gotten rid of most of the furniture, just the couch and the coffee table and their bed still left in the apartment. Finally: “You think you’ll ever be back?” she asks very quietly. 

Belle blinks. “Of course we’ll be back,” she says. But, the thing is, she’s not completely sure that’s true. She and Rum have one-way tickets. It’s going to be good, she knows, a new start for both of them. And she’s really, really excited. Really. But it’s, just. They haven’t talked about when they might be coming back, and for the first time, Belle thinks she might want to, the idea of leaving Storybrooke forever makes her stomach twist. 

Ruby opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else, but then the front door opens, and Rum’s there and Ruby’s mouth snaps shut. She’s never gotten comfortable around Rum, and even though she’s going to be their one witness at the ceremony tomorrow, she always acts a little weird whenever he’s around, like he’s going to suddenly snap his cuffs on her and arrest her. 

“Hello, my dear,” he says to Belle, smiling so that his eyes crinkle up at the corners. She smiles back at him as her stomach flips pleasantly, a little thrill still running through her at the sight of him, even after all these months. 

Beside her, Ruby’s getting to her feet, pulling on her jacket and looking down at the floor. “I gotta go,” she says, flipping her hair out from under the red leather of her collar. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, Belle?”

“Yeah,” Belle says, watching as Ruby edges past Rum and out into the hall, already out the door before he even has time to take off his coat. “Tomorrow.”

*

“I think that’s everything.” Belle’s standing in the middle of the bedroom, surveying the almost-empty closet with her hands on her hips. All that’s left inside are their clothes for tomorrow, Rum’s suit freshly pressed and her dress still hidden in a garment bag in an attempt to keep with the whole groom-not-seeing-the-dress tradition for tomorrow’s ceremony. Even if they've basically ignored every other pre-wedding tradition, Belle's determined to make this one stick.

“Ready for bed, then, dear?” Rum asks. He’s already in bed, tucked under the covers. Today was his last day at the station, and he looks exhausted, purple shadows under his eyes.

Belle nods, biting her lip and looking around the room for the millionth time, making sure she’s not forgetting anything.

“Belle?” Rum says, his voice quiet and kind of hesitant. It’s always sort of strange to hear him like this, like he’s not quite sure what to do. It's just...he's saved everything -- from her father and Gaston and all of the horrible things that have ever happened to her. It seems very strange that he's be worried about anything after all of that. 

“Yeah,” she says, giving him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m ready.”

She slides into bed beside him, relishing the feel of the warmth of his body against hers, snuggling up close to him under the covers, smiling a little when he hugs her to him, tucking her close against his side. She slides her hand up under his shirt, pressing her palm flat against his chest, closing her eyes as she feels the way his heart beats steadily beneath her fingers.

“Are we going to come back?” she finally asks. Her voice sounds small, quiet and unsure, and Belle presses her nose to his chest, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of him.

For a moment, Rum doesn’t respond. Then he says, “Do you _want_ to come back?”

“I’m not sure,” she admits, even though she’s pretty sure she does. It’s just...she’s never even been outside of _Maine_ before. “Maybe?”

“Okay, then,” Rum says after a beat. “We can come back whenever you wish.” He leans down and presses as soft kiss against her forehead, his lips cool and soft against her hair. 

“Really?” Belle asks, and she feels him nod, his chin bumping against the crown of her head.

“Of course.”

Belle smiles, sliding closer to him, snaking her arm around his waist. She feels almost absurdly relieved, even if she doesn’t think they’ll actually do it. The truth is, there’s nothing here for them any more, not really. She’ll miss Ruby, of course, but she hasn’t spoken to her father in more than a year, and it’s not like she’s actually going to miss this town very much. But still. It's nice to know that they can always come back if they need to.

“Now,” Rum says. “Let’s get some sleep, shall we? We’ve got a rather big day tomorrow.”

Belle nods and closes her eyes, figuring she’ll fall asleep almost immediately. She just really wants for it to be tomorrow. Even though it’s just a courthouse wedding, she’s really, really excited, probably more excited than she’s ever been about anything in her entire life. Which is maybe why, despite the fact that she wants nothing more than for it to be tomorrow already, she’s feeling so antsy and restless that she’s pretty sure she’s never going to be able to sleep. 

She tries not to move around too much, Rum sounds like he’s asleep, his breathing deep and even, but after what must be hours of just lying there not sleeping, she sighs heavily, kicking the blankets off her maybe a little more violent than is absolutely necessary.

“Belle?” Rum asks, his voice is quiet and sleep-rough, but she can hear the worry there.

“I can’t sleep,” she confesses, feeling sheepish. 

He laughs softly, his chest rumbling against her cheek. “So I gather.” 

He shifts against her, sliding one hand up underneath the hem of her tank top, his fingertips trailing lightly up her side. When his fingers brush her ribs, she laughs lightly, jerking lightly as he tickles her. “Rum!” she says, her breath hitching her her throat.

“Everything okay, dearie?” he asks lightly, and strokes his fingers against her skin again, teasing her until she’s giggling and squirming away from him, moving so that she’s suddenly on top of him, pinning him down. He's so warm beneath her, and sometimes she still can't believe that this is actually her life.

Rum’s smiling up at her, his hands still up under her shirt. He’s touching her differently now, reaching back down to push her shirt up over her head as she presses her hips against his. Outside, the moon is bright and full, filling the room with a silvery light that catches the sapphire in her ring, making it glint bright and blue in the darkness. 

The sight makes her pause for just a second, studying the ring in the dark. It still makes her heart flip, seeing it on her finger, knowing what it actually means. Beneath her, Rum has stilled, and he blinks up at her.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks. His forehead is creased with worry, and Belle smiles down at him, reaching up to smooth away the wrinkles. 

“I’m wonderful,” she says sincerely, and she leans down to kiss him. She feels him smile as he kisses her back, his mouth curling up at the corners. She presses her body against his, relishing the warmth of his skin, the feel of his heartbeat, and she kisses him more deeply, sweeping her tongue along his lower lip. 

After a few minutes, she pulls away to catch her breath. He’s staring up at her in the dark, his pupils huge and his lips red and swollen. His hair’s fallen in front of his face, and she reaches up to smooth a grey-brown strand away from his forehead. 

“I’m nervous,” she confesses in a whisper, brushing her lips against the shell of his ear. “About tomorrow.”

“Me too,” he whispers back, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear him.

“You are?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbow and looking down at him. “I didn’t think anything scared you.”

He laughs then, low and bitter. 

“What’s so funny?” she asks, confused. 

“It’s just...” he starts, then stops. She’s got her hand pressed against his chest, and he reaches up to stroke his thumb along the ring on her finger. Then: “I’m afraid I used to have a bit of a reputation,” he says quietly. “For being a coward.”

Belle blinks. “What?” Belle asks. It’s just, that doesn’t make any sense. He’s one of the bravest people she knows. 

He sighs. “It’s not important,” he says, and she can tell that’s not true. “Let’s get some sleep, alright?”

“Okay,” she agrees quietly. Because she does want to know, she wants to know everything about it, but, she guesses, running her thumb along to cool, smooth metal of her ring, they’ve got an entire lifetime to talk about these kinds of things.

So she just settles against him, lying with her head on his chest. She can feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek, strong and steady and comforting. 

“I love you,” she says, and she feels his breath catch in his chest, like he’s still surprised to hear her say it, even after all this time. 

“And I love you,” he tells her, and Belle smiles, closing her eyes and listening to the quiet, steady sound of his heart beating in time with hers.


End file.
